


Strider Home for Ghostly Rejects

by nompoetique



Series: The Ghostly Rejects [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Blood, Fluff, Ghosts, Humanstuck, Multi, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-05
Updated: 2014-07-04
Packaged: 2018-01-18 07:02:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1419106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nompoetique/pseuds/nompoetique
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“There is only one rule in this house, Egbert, and you’re already having trouble with it.  No fucking Ghostbuster jokes.  No puns.  No witticisms.  Don’t even say the word ‘Ghostbuster’, got it?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Strange and the Usual](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1043505) by [lalazee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalazee/pseuds/lalazee). 



You wake abruptly, pulse bouncing in your ears, eyes snapping open as your body struggles to consciousness.  What had you been dreaming about?  Something dark.  It had been oppressively dark.  Had you been flying?  You stare at the ceiling over your head, mind slowly mulling over blurry images of heavy, shuddering clouds and blackly flashing lightening.  It hadn’t been one of the usual dreams, that was for sure.  You hadn’t spotted the checkered battlefield, the smoldering golden ruins, the man who looks like your dad but holds the hand of a stranger wearing a pink scarf.

No, this dream had been different.  You furrow your brow in concentration, but the details slip away from your grasp, fuzzy images melting into the recesses of your sub consciousness despite your efforts.  You huff under your breath, irritated but resigned.  It’s always been this way, ever since you can remember.  Each night without fail you have vivid dreams of places that are terrifying and magical, where you do things both silly and important.  There are people, usually strangers, but they always seem familiar while you’re asleep.  More than familiar, they seem like family.

But when you wake up, the specifics dissipate, images drifting, emotions dissolving into shadows and you’re left with the empty feeling of loss, the echo of danger making your heart race.  You don’t know why you spend so much time thinking about it; they’re just dreams after all.  Yet the drained feeling pulling at your limbs, a constant reminder that you’re missing something, it won’t let you dismiss your dreams so easily.     

Lost in thought, you absently observe the progress of a small spider as it treks across a water stain on the dingy ceiling. 

 _Wait,_ you think belatedly, _what the hell?_   Your bedroom doesn’t have a water stain. And it certainly isn’t dingy; Jane wouldn’t allow that in a million years.  Drugged with groggy confusion, you look around as sluggish fear sends pricks of adrenaline through your veins.  The bed you’re lying on is small and stiff, situated in the center of a relatively bare room.  The walls are covered in yellowing wallpaper, peeling in the corners and patterned with floral print that vaguely reminds you of your nanna.  No pictures adorn the walls, and the only furniture is a simple wooden dresser with a generous coating of dust. 

Are you still dreaming?  Have you been kidnapped by a psychotic grandma?  You relax with a small giggle, grinning at the image of a hunched, wrinkled, old woman in a black ski mask slipping into your bedroom and whisking you away to her Mansion of Evil Knitting and Too Many Cookies.  Of course it’s a dream.  _A pretty boring dream though_ , you decide, wrinkling your nose at the crocheted blanket draped over your legs.  Couldn’t there at least be cool ghosts to fight or something? 

“Finally decided to open your eyes, princess?  I thought I was going have to pull a Prince Philip and kiss you awake,” drawls a bored voice.

You yelp, bolting upright before groaning and slumping down once more, the heels of your palms pressed into your eyes.  Your head _hurts_.  _And where the hell did that guy come from,_ you question through the static aftershock of pain obscuring your vision. You could have sworn you were alone a second ago.   

“Yeah, you’ll have headache for a while.  It’d probably be better to, you know, not jump up and scream like a baby again.  I’ve known some babies, man, and you can out-infant all of them.  Congratulations.”

You sit up again, slower this time, and try to level an intimidating glare at the speaker without drawing attention to the nervous tremble in your hands.  But as soon as you face him, something in you clicks.  Something subtle but definite, like a puzzle piece finally slotting into place. 

The way his hands are shoved into his black jeans, the casual slump of his shoulders, his pale blond hair falling over his dark pair of aviators, it all stirs sudden warm recognition in your stomach.  You’re pretty sure you don’t know him from anywhere, but then why does he seem so painfully familiar?  

You blink confusedly, searching for a reaction more reasonable than instant trust, but it’s impossible to be afraid of this guy.  You settle for giving him a friendly smile. 

“I’m John Egbert,” you say, extending a hand.

“Dave Strider,” is the reply, but he only looks at you and arches an eyebrow.

You pull your hand back, undiscouraged.

“So, do you mind telling me what I’m doing here, Dave?”

There is a beat of silence before he answers.

“What do you remember?”

Your eyebrows pulled together.

“About what?”

Dave sighs and rolls his shoulders before striding over to crouch by the bed, putting himself at your eyelevel.  You’re reminded of your father doing the same thing when you were little and would wake up screaming from nightmares of acid green skies and bloody battlegrounds. 

“Think back for a sec.  What’s the last thing you remember doing?”

You open your mouth immediately, your reply of “going to bed after studying with my sister” already beginning to roll of your tongue when a stab of pain hits between your eyes.

You cry out, more from surprise than the actual pain, and clutch at your head.  Disjointed images slide through your mind like a PowerPoint from hell.  You see Jane, shaking your shoulders and crying before her tear stained cheeks melt away, the skin peeling back to reveal the painted face of a man rattling with silent laughter, not making a sound through his stitched mouth, grotesquely pulled into a smile. 

The surroundings flash and there is the overwhelming sensation of control, of supremacy, of limitless freedom and you are in the city at night, wandering through the rainy Seattle streets with your mouth stretched into a grin so wide you can feel your muscles protesting.  You turn into an alley and laugh raucously when a stray cat darts away from your approaching feet.

“Egbert.  Hey, John.” 

The sound of snapping in front of your face jerks you from the vision.  Dave is still beside you, but he’s on his feet now, leaning over to look at your face and holding his fingers in front of you nose.  You stare back at him with wide eyes, your whole body trembling, not from fear, but from the sudden absence of the smiling man’s power.

“What the fuck was that?” you ask, your voice uneven.

“What’d you remember?”

You shake your head slowly, reaching for words.

“It wasn’t really a memory, more of a—a vision, I guess.  There was this guy, I don’t know, he was like this creepy clown guy, he was—I don’t know, he came out of my sister—Jane!  Is she alright?  What hell happened?  Oh my god, I’ve got to go find her—if that bastard hurt her I’m—”

Dave holds up his hands, cutting you off your panicked rambling.

“Slow down there, Toothy, you’re sister’s fine.”

“Are you sure?  I’d still really like to go see her—and I don’t understand what’s going on, I mean he like _came out_ of her fucking _skull._ ”

“That didn’t actually happen,” Dave tells you flatly, unfazed.

You gape at him.

“What do you mean it didn’t happen?” you shout, waving your arms.  “I saw it!  Her skin peeled away like her face was a satanic orange!”    

Dave lifts an eyebrow.

“Really, dude?  Satanic orange?” he deadpans.

You roll your eyes, fighting the urge to just get up and run to your apartment.  You manage to resist, mostly because you don’t know where you are.  Or if you could even make it to the door without having another aneurism.

“That’s what it looked like!”

“Okay, it still didn’t happen.  Well, the head part at least.  It’s just a hallucination caused by the mark the spirit left in you.  Like shitty diner-coffee aftertaste except with shitty horror effects.”

You eye him doubtfully until his words actually register.

“Whoa, whoa, wait, what?  Spirit? What are you talking about?”

Dave just looks at you and you can almost hear his expression saying _obviously, dumbfuck._

“Welcome to the big kid world, Egbert.  Spirits violate more people than horny soccer moms.”

You process this, pulling at your lower lip with your teeth.  Spirits.  Huh.

“But that doesn’t explain why I’m here,” you say after a lengthy silence.

Dave runs a hand through his hair and then crosses his arms, and you can tell he’s evaluating you from behind his shades.

“My bro and I clean up this type of shit.  Ghosts and stuff.  Not too many people know about the supernatural half of the world, and someone’s got to take care of the fuckers.”   

He shrugs, and you get the feeling he’s uncomfortable.  Well too bad; you have questions.

“What do you mean you ‘take care of them’?  Are you saying you’re a Ghostbuster?”   

“Egbert, if there is one thing I am saying in this conversation, it is that I am exactly the opposite of a Ghostbuster.  Things that are like Ghostbusters are way the fuck over there and my fine ass is firmly planted here, where things are distinctly unlike Ghostbusters in every conceivable way.”

An involuntary giggle bursts through your lips, which prompts him to aim a stern finger at your chest.

“There is only one rule in this house, Egbert, and you’re already having trouble with it.  No fucking Ghostbuster jokes.  No puns.  No witticisms.  Don’t even _say_ the word ‘Ghostbuster’, got it?”

You pull a solemn face and exaggeratedly mime zipping your lips.  Heh.  That won’t last long.  Dave is so Venkman.

“Wait, but if you’re don’t have all the sweet Ghostbuster gear—” Dave glares at you.  “—then how did you get Psycho Clown out of me?”

“Are you fucking serious right now.  Okay, I hate to be the one to break it to you, but the Ghostbusters aren’t real.  I know your dreams of sucking ghosts out of people with giant vacuums have been shattered but it’s time for a hard shot of stone-fucking-cold reality.  It's hard to hear, but spirits can only be exorcised—”

“But I thought demons got exorcised?”

“Christ, Egbert, do you want me to explain things or not?”

“Oh, yeah, sorry, I’ll shut up.”

“Alright then.  Demons and spirits are basically the same thing.  All demons are spirits, but not all spirits are demons, like that squares and rectangles shit your grade school teacher feeds you but no one actually cares about because what the fuck, you're in like fourth grade and no one gives a shit.  Anyway, demons are just corrupted spirits; usually they’ve gone bat-shit insane and start snatching bodies to release anger or malevolence or whatever.

“And exorcisms don’t work like you probably think they do, since you apparently have phenomenally terrible taste in movies.  You don’t just chant random bullshit in Latin, it takes an animist prayer of cleanliness to actually expel the thing and then you’ve got to kill it with these expensive-as-fuck-and yet-incredibly-shitty swords and it’s a goddamn pain in the ass, so don’t get possessed again ‘cause no one wants to deal with that shit.”

“So you’re saying that you and your brother patrol the city looking for ghosts to exorcise?”

“Don’t be an idiot; Seattle’s fucking huge.  We have connections around, people who know what to look for.  If they see something then we go out and do what we can.”

“How’s it even possible to know someone’s possessed?”

Dave shrugs.  “There are certain signs.  They’re being controlled by some off-his-rocker dead guy and they tend to act like it.”

You just nod, the sound of your laughter, contorted and unhinged as it rattled through the alley, surfacing in your mind.

A knock at the door interrupts the unsettling memory and you see Dave stiffen from the corner of your eye.  You look over at him, but he’s eased back into his casual stance and blank expression, and only shrugs at you.

“Er, come in,” you call uncertainly. 

A tall man opens the door, clad in black jeans, a white polo, and pointy sunglasses.  He looks almost exactly like Dave, except with broader shoulders and slightly darker hair.  Obviously he's the brother Dave mentioned.

“Dirk,” he says by way of introduction.  You glance at Dave again, but he just shakes his head.  Right, like you know what _that_ is supposed to mean.  Dirk follows your gaze, acknowledging Dave’s presence in accordance to some Strider code, probably.  You just met these guys and you can already tell they're the too-cool-for-school types.

“Um, hi, Dirk, I’m John.  Thanks for, uh, Ghostbusting me.” 

You wince and you hear Dave sigh.  Maybe you shouldn’t have broken The Rule in the first sentence you said to the guy, but Dirk only raises an eyebrow.  He's more intimidating than Dave.

“What do you remember?”

“Not too much, honestly.  Just freaking out my sister and walking around Seattle for a bit.”  And the power.  The intoxicating power.  

You shiver.

He nods, his expression as unaffected as his brother’s.

“So when can I leave?  Now?  I really have to talk to my sister and I don’t want to inconvenience you or anything…”  You trail off, unsure of what else to say. 

“Not yet.  Possession affects everyone differently, but it always has side effects.  You can leave in a couple days, when I decide you’re not a threat to anyone.”

“But my sister—”

“You can call her.  Explain things.  Make something up, tell the truth if she’ll believe you.  But you can’t leave yet.”

You look over at Dave, who shrugs.  Damn him and his noncommittal responses. 

“Okay,” you sigh, defeated.  Besides, you wouldn’t want to be around Jane if you were going to be a danger to her.

“Can I at least get some of my stuff if I’m going to be here for a while?”

“Already got it.”

Dirk’s hand jerks, and you squeak, moving just fast enough to catch the object arcing toward your face.  It’s your phone.  A duffle bag comes flying after it, landing heavily on your legs.  Confused as to how he could have possibly found your apartment, broken into it, and then packed you a bag, you look up at him bewilderedly, but he only flashes a smirk, the first expression to animate his impassive face.

“The bathroom’s in the hall.  Breakfast in ten.”

And then he’s gone, flashstepping through the door.  You transfer your confusion to Dave but the smug bastard just mirrors his brother's smirk.

“Bro’s always like that,” he says.  “You’ll get used to it.  Probably not.  Just avoid the smuppets, man.”

With that the younger Strider is gone too, slipping through the open door.  You sigh, rubbing a hand over your face.  Your head throbs and your stomach growls loudly in response.  How long were you asleep?  You probably should have asked earlier.  

You groan, leaning back into the headboard and wondering how the fuck this could have happened.

A second later your phone lights up, the default ringtone chiming shrilly.  You answer it without looking.

“Hello?”

“John!  John, are you okay?  I’ve been so worried, and I was going to call dad but then I thought you might be doing drugs and he’d be so disappointed, I know how much that would upset both of you.  Are you doing drugs, John?  You can tell me, I just want to help, and are you sure you’re okay—”

“Jane,” you cut her off.  “I’m not doing drugs.  And yes, I’m perfectly fine, I just… got really stressed about exams and kind of freaked out.  I’m sorry I scared you.”

You wish she would believe you if you told her you had been possessed by a juggalo, but you know your sister too well to even try explaining.  She’s a skeptic to her core.

“And thanks for not calling dad,” you tack on after a moment.  The last thing you want is your father getting involved in all this.  You know he’d be disappointed even without proof of drugs.

Jane lets out a breath, the gust of static crackling in your ear.

“Okay, I trust you.  Can you come home?  Do you need me to pick you up?” 

The concern in her voice tugs at your heart; you desperately want to ask your big sister to pick you up and take you home, give you a hug and tell you everything will be okay.

But you can’t.  All it takes is the memory of her terrified, streaming eyes, the tremble of her fingers as they dug into your shoulders.  You wouldn’t dare be around her until it’s safe.  You trust Dave and his brother to know what they’re talking about when it comes to all this ghost crap.

“I’m sorry, Janey,” you say, the nickname you haven't used since you were kids slipping out.  “I’m staying with friends for a while.  Just a couple of days, I promise.”

She’s silent and you hold your breath.

“Okay, John,” she concedes, hurt evident in her tone.  “Just… just please be safe.  Call me later, okay?”

“I will.  Love you, Jane.”

“Love you too, John.”

The line goes dead and you have to breathe measuredly, keeping each inhale and exhale in time with your heartbeat in order to hold back your tears.  You hate lying to your sister.  She’s always been there for you, your closest friend ever since your mom died.  _I’m only trying to protect her,_ you tell yourself, trying to shake off the guilt.  _It’ll be okay.  It’s only a few days._  


	2. Chapter 2

Your stomach grumbles, reminding you that Dirk had said breakfast was in ten.  You check your phone.  Shit!  It’s already been ten minutes!  You jump from the bed, nearly toppling back over when your head pounds viciously at the sudden action. 

Fighting through the hazy blur of your headache, you unzip your duffle, grabbing a pair of jeans, boxers, and the first shirt you touch, which happens to be long sleeved and dark blue.  Shedding your sweatpants and _Midnight Crew_ t-shirt, you pull on the fresh clothes, hopping out the door while still dragging your pants over your ass.

You stop at the bathroom to pee and open the medicine cabinet while you’re there, rummaging through the various bottles and hair gels until you find Tylenol.  Popping two in your mouth you rush down the narrow stairs, drawn forward by the smell of frying bacon. 

The staircase leads to a spacious living room with high ceilings and large bay windows.  Leather couches on one side are arranged around a stone hearth fireplace, bookshelves lining the walls, a beautiful grand piano in the corner.  The other side is practically a movie theatre, plush chairs circling a huge TV, game consoles you don’t even recognize pushed beneath it, and a tall shelf stacked with games and movies against the far wall.  Dave and Dirk hadn’t really struck you as rich, especially judging by your dusty old room, but you guess maybe they just don’t like cleaning upstairs.

A sudden burst of feminine laughter breaks your attention and you look up, surprised.  You hadn’t even considered there could be other people staying here.

 Rounding the corner and coming into the bright kitchen, you almost fall over; overcome with the sensation you had earlier when you saw Dave.  That warm feeling of something missing finally being replaced, only intensified.

A petite blonde girl is sitting at a round table with her back to you, but you can see her thin shoulders shaking with quiet laughter.  Another girl with long, wild black hair and round glasses is bent over by the counter, holding her stomach as alternating peals of laughter and choked snorts shake her frame.  The object of amusement seems to be a short, olive skinned boy with messy black hair.  He’s holding a spatula and raw egg drips in strings down his face as he glares at the dark haired girl with a murderous expression.  You wonder if the egg is actually cooking on top of his head, like in cartoons. 

“You’re going to die, Harley,” he growls.  But whatever intimidation he may have mustered shatters as the yolk slides languidly down his cheek, dropping onto the floor in a bright splat of yellow.

Both girls erupt in renewed laughter and you can’t keep yourself from giggling at the look of pure rage emblazoned on the egg-covered boy’s features. The three turn at the sound of your voice.  Egg Guy scowls, his dark eyes narrowed, but the girl beside him, still sniggering, elbows his side.  The blonde girl appraises you with a polite smile.

“You must be the newest client,” she says. 

“Client?” you ask, concern for your wallet growing quickly as only a broke college student knows.  “You mean I have to pay for being Ghostbusted?”

She laughs, a delicate, bubbly sound.

“No, no matter how many times I advise Strider to charge for his services, he’s still too kind to be a businessman.”

You half-smile, sensing you’re missing some context.

“Well, that works out for me, I guess.  Unless he wants me pay him in student loans.”

“You’re a college kid too?” the dark haired girl chimes in.  “So is Rose!  She goes to UW.”

You raise your eyebrows with a grin.

“No way!  I got there too.  I’m a junior.”

Rose looks you over again.

“Really?  How coincidental; I am too.  I can’t believe I don’t recognize you, I thought I had been acquainted with most of the junior class.”

“Wow, really?  Um, you might know my sister?  Jane Egbert?”

Rose quirks an eyebrow.

“Yes, I do know Jane.  Come to think of it, you resemble each other quite a bit.”

“How remarkable.  Two people have a mutual acquaintance.  I’m fucking floored, quick Jade, call the newspaper, they have a new headline,” Egg Guy grumbles loudly.

The girls giggle, apparently accustomed to Eggy’s grumpiness.  Egg Guy rolls his eyes in an excessively long-suffering manner.

“I’m Jade,” introduces the dark haired girl, offering her hand. 

You shake it, surprised when she squeezes yours so tightly you have to bite back a yelp.

“John Egbert.”

“And this grumpy guy is Karkat,” she says, releasing your hand in favor of pulling Egg Guy into a headlock and ruffling his hair.  He yells and pushes her away.

“Gross, you’re all sticky.”  She makes a face at him and he throws his hands into the air.

“Well golly fucking gee, Jade!  I wonder why!  It couldn’t possibly be because you threw a fucking egg at me!” he shouts.  You have a sneaking suspicion that this guy only has one volume.

“Jesus Christ, it’s too early for this shit,” mumbles a voice directly behind you.

Caught off guard, you whip around, stumbling backward simultaneously.  With the grace of a sedated elephant, you fall hard on your ass and crash into a chair, sprawling on the ground with an impressive thud as the chair lands on top of you.  Jade explodes in laughter as you stare up at the ceiling through the fog of pain in your throbbing skull and contemplate spending the rest of your life on the floor.

“You’re a fucking ballerina, Egbert,” Karkat snorts. 

“If you break something you’re paying for it,” Dirk informs you disinterestedly.

Jade steps over and helps you up, smiling as she drags you to your feet.  Does she ever actually stop smiling? 

“What’re you making, Kar?  And why do you have egg in your hair?” Dirk asks, moving to the cabinet to retrieve a coffee mug.

 “Bacon, but you don’t get anything else because Jade is a hyperactive child.  And I have egg in my hair because fuck you,” Karkat replies, poking at the bacon with his spatula.

“Okay.  Yo, Jade, coffee me.”

Jade skirts around Karkat to grab the coffee, bumping him with her hip as she passes by again and giggling when he swears at her.  Dirk grabs the pot, pouring himself a cup before passing it to Rose so she can top herself off as she tells him about her plans to stop by UW later.  You observe the routine, noting the affectionate familiarity beneath the surface. 

A memory of your mother and father laughing together as they made breakfast flashes through your mind.   You can see yourself and Jane clamoring at your father’s legs, asking him to make the pancakes in different shapes, and a melancholic ache flares in your chest.  You brush it away, forcing a smile as you help Jade grab plates from a cupboard.

“How long have you been here?” you ask conversationally. 

She hands you a chipped plate with a picture of a blue bird on it.

“A week,” she responds with a buck-toothed smile.  “It’s great here.”  She lowers her voice and you lean closer.

“Between you and me, I probably don’t need to be here anymore, but it’s hard to leave.  It doesn’t take long for these morons to grow on you.”

“What are you in for?” you question, immediately feeling dumb.  You sound like a gritty inmate from a stupid, yet undeniably awesome movie.

Jade just grins at you.

“Pretty standard possession case for me.  Luckily I didn’t hurt anyone.  My dog sensed that something was wrong and brought me to Dirk.”

Her _dog_ brought her?  How does that even work?

“Wow, smart dog.”

Yep,” she smiles proudly, passing you another two bird plates to set on the table.  “Bec’s a good boy.”

“Bacon’s done,” Karkat announces, distributing it among the five plates while wielding the frying pan like a weapon, probably to keep Jade away.

Dirk snatches bread from the toaster, piling it on a plate and pulling butter and jam from the fridge.  Everyone sits around the table and you briefly wonder where Dave is, but you’re distracted when Jade manages to accidently elbow Karkat in the gut, who retaliates by stealing her toast.  Rose watches them calmly, nibbling on her bacon and smiling slightly every so often.  It looks to you like she’s making mental notes and you decide to ask her what her major is later as you butter your toast and cram it into your mouth unceremoniously.  You’d bet all seven of your _Ghost Rider_ posters it’s psychology.  You spread a wobbling mound of blueberry jam, your favorite, on your next piece of toast, happily savoring the feeling of food.  You’re deeply convinced food qualifies as an emotion.

“How’re you feeling, kid?”

You freeze at Dirk’s voice, third piece of toast halfway to your mouth.  He’s staring at you with an inscrutable expression.  Although it’s starting to seem like that’s just his default face.

“I’m okay, besides my headache,” you answer honestly.  “But even that’s going away since I took Tylenol, so I’m fine.”

Dirk nods, still watching you.  You wish you could see his eyes; maybe that would make it easier to tell what he’s thinking.

“I do have a few questions though.  Like how long do I actually have to stay here?  And why do I have to stay?  I mean, you said I would be a danger to people, but what’s that supposed to mean?  And—”

“Okay, shut up.  If you want me to answer anything then stop with the babbling,” Dirk says, not looking at you.  He’s picking apart a piece of bread.  Not toast.  Just bread.  There’s not even butter on it or anything.  _This guy’s weird._

“You’re dangerous because when a demon possesses you—”

Karkat groans, leaning back in his chair.

“I thought there was no demon talk at the table.  Wasn’t that a rule?  Anyone else remember that rule?  Because I do.”

“He’s the new guy, Kar, he gets a pass.  And I will tell him what you did when you first woke up if you don’t—”

“Okay!  Fine!  You’re a terrible fucking person, Strider.”

“Anyway, you’re dangerous because demons leave marks when they possess someone.  Usually, the marks go away after a few days, but while it’s there it can influence the host to do things they don’t want to.  You could blackout or lose time, and next thing you know you’re in fucking Alabama and you’ve burned down a town and you owe an angry Japanese dude ten grand, and no one wants that.  Trust me.  So you stay here until it goes away, and I hopefully never have to see you again.  The only time that would change is if there were complications.”

“Complications?  What’s that supposed to mean?”

“There are endless possibilities when you’re dealing with the paranormal,” says Rose with a small smile.

“For example, I was possessed a little over a year ago and the spirit awoke supernatural roots within me.  Here, I can demonstrate.  Give me your hand.”

You oblige, confused.  Her hand is small and cold when it wraps around yours.  Her eyes fall shut immediately, fingers clenching your palm tightly, short nails biting into your skin.  You watch her face, her eyes darting beneath her eyelids, mouth pulled into a firm line of concentration.

After what seems like an eternity her lashes flutter open, lilac eyes dreamy and unfocused, and she releases your hand, folding her own in her lap demurely.  She smiles at you, but her face is pale.

“You’re a very special person, John,” she tells you before resuming her meal.

“When the spirit possessed Rose,” Dirk explains, seeing your disturbed expression, “it triggered some magic bullshit in her and fucked up her life.”

“I disagree,” she interjects absently, putting down her toast now that she’s eaten away the crust.

Dirk ignores her.

“Now she lives here ‘cause she’s more susceptible to possession.  People with traces of the supernatural world in them draw spirits in easily; they’re like fucking flypaper for ghosts.”

“But what do you mean by ‘supernatural roots’?” you ask, directing the inquiry at Rose.

She meets your gaze, and you’re relieved to see color returning to her cheeks. 

“We don’t quite know the extent of my abilities thus far, but when I come in direct contact with a person I can read their emotional history, sometimes brief memories if they’re deemed important enough by their owner.  They call me the Seer.”

 For a moment all you can think is _blonde Dr. Xavier goes to my college._

“Wait,” you say, shaking out of your _X-Men_ stupor, “who calls you the Seer?”

“The Horrorterrors,” she answers simply.  “They speak to me in my dreams.

Right.  Horrorterrors.  That explains things.

You can practically hear Karkat’s eyes rolling when he says “way to be cryptic and creepy as fuck, Lalonde.  Really nailed that one.”

“Well how long have you been here, Karkat?” you ask.  In a shocking and unpredictable turn of events, he glares at you.

“Five days,” he responds gruffly, eyes shifting to the table.

You stare at him, hoping for elaboration, but upon receiving none you turn to Dirk.

The other man just shakes his head.

“He’s been through a lot.”

Karkat chooses that moment to choke on his bacon, coughing and sputtering while Jade thumps him on the back, somehow managing to laugh and look concerned.  He bats her hand away when he catches his breath, face still tomato red.

“Goddammit, Jade, are you trying to fracture my ribs?”

“I’m just trying to help!  Sorry, next time you’re dying I’ll just stand by calmly!”

“I wasn’t dying, dumbass, it’s called coughing!”

They descend into bickering, Dirk shaking his head and Rose smiling coyly.

While Karkat and Jade argue like children, you talk to Rose about school, finding out that she is in fact a psychology major as you inhale your fourth piece of toast and fifth piece of bacon.  She apparently only goes to the school every couple of days, taking most of her classes online.

By then everyone has finished, even Karkat, who had to keep defending his food from Jade’s sneaking fingers.  Dirk gets up, beginning to put plates in the sink.

Rose excuses herself to get ready for her trip to the university, Jade and Karkat wandering into the living room and turning on the TV.  You hear them squabbling over what channel to watch a second later.

Grabbing the remaining plates, you walk over to Dirk, wordlessly offering to help with the dishes.  He moves aside, letting you wash while he takes a towel to dry.

“So,” you say, awkward now that no one is around to fill the silence.  “How did all this,” you gesture vaguely to the room, “start?”

He glances at you, and you blush, ducking your head.  _Way to sound like an idiot, John._

“Some shit happened when I was a kid,” he says after a minute, toweling the dish in his hands. 

You wait for him to add more, but when he doesn’t you hand him another plate.

“Sorry,” you tell him, thinking of your own screwed up family.  At least your dad didn’t decide to hunt ghosts after your mom died. 

He looks at you for a moment, and then takes the plate with a shrug.

“It was a long time ago.”

“My mom died when I was ten and I still get sad when I see people with brown eyes because they remind me of hers.”

You turn back to the sink, scrubbing at Karkat’s frying pan.

“Time doesn’t seem too relevant when you lose someone you love.”

He’s quiet and you wish you had just shut your mouth instead of saying the first thing that comes to mind like usual.  He’s obviously trying to avoid the whole conversation, not looking for you to go all Dr. Phil.

“Yeah, I guess not,” he replies, voice deeper than it was a moment ago.  

The only sound for a while is the rush of the tap and the clack of plates and pans being returned to their shelves.  You don’t expect him to talk again, but when he does you smile excitedly.  Apparently you’ve managed to not alienate the guy who saved your life within one conversation.  Go you.

 “You’re handling the whole “I’ve been possessed by a dead dude” thing surprisingly well.  Most people have more trouble adjusting.  Karkat didn’t come out of his room for three days.”

“Well _excuse_ me!  Sorry we can’t all be John “I love the demons inside me” Egbert!”

Dirk smirks at Karkat’s angry shout and you feel your face heat.  You hadn’t considered that you should be more traumatized.  Maybe you’re in shock?  You don’t feel like it, but who knows.  You’re majoring in biology, not doctoring.

“I guess I just want to be able to see my sister again soon.  Our apartment will probably be overrun with cakes by the time I get back.”

Dirk cocks an eyebrow.

“She bakes when she’s nervous,” you explain.  “And when she’s excited.  Or angry.  Basically she bakes when she has an emotion.”

He smirks, finishing putting away the silverware and leaning back against the counter.  He stretches his arms over his head and you think he’s watching you, but it’s hard to tell through his shades.  His back pops and he loosens, pulling his shirt down where it had slid up to show the corner of his hip.

“And yet you’re not 300 pounds.”

You groan emphatically.

“I _hate_ cake!  God, why does my whole family have to be so fascinated by baked goods?  You can’t get away from it!  It’s just cake and cookies and brownies and pies _everywhere_.  Once when I was a kid I went downstairs in the middle of the night for a cup of water and caught by dad frosting three cakes!  Who does that?  It’s not natural.  And it’s not even that he just makes them, but he _throws_ them at people too!  You’ll just be walking through the house and suddenly you’re surrounded by frosting and there’s cake all down your clothes and splattering the walls.  It’s a confectionery warzone.”

Dirk is smirking at you by the time you become aware of the fact that you’re ranting about baking and must sound like a cake-crazed lunatic.  You guess that kind of is what you are, but you’re trying to make a good impression here.

A sudden screech draws your attention, Dirk steps into the living room and you follow.  Jade has Karkat pinned on the ground, couch cushions strewn around them.

“Say you’re sorry!” she yells.

“You’re such a fucking child, Harley!”

“You ruined my fort!”

“It was blocking the TV!”

“Yeah!  Because you just _had_ to turn on _Sleepless in Seattle_ , which is a horrible movie!  I was just trying to be a good friend and spare your eyes!”

“Take that back!  Tom Hanks is a national treasure!”

“This is why I can’t leave them alone for more than two fucking seconds,” Dirk mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Jade, c’mon, let him go.  You know he can’t hold his own against you.”

Reluctantly, she removes her knee from his chest, allowing him to sit up, glaring at her with distrustful eyes.

“Why don’t you two actually do something productive and go to the store.  We need eggs.  I’m not even going to ask why they were all over the floor.”

Karkat looks up, his dark eyes widening.

“Wait, you want us to leave?  Like out there?  Where there are other people… and things?  Without you?”

Dirk shrugs, shifting his weight to his left foot and crossing his arms.

“You’ll have to do it eventually, Kar.  And Jade’ll be with you; she could have left three days ago.  You’ll be fine.”

“Don’t worry Karkles, I’ll save you from any mean old ghosts,” she says grinning at him.  He growls.

“No, you’ll call me if something weird happens,” Dirk contradicts, tossing her a set of car keys.

Jade rolls her eyes, smiling.

“Yes, Mama Strider.”

He frowns.

“Get outta here,” he grumbles, pushing at her shoulder when she springs up to wrap him in a hug.  She’s laughing loudly, affection bubbling in the sound as she pulls a protesting Karkat out the door.

“There’s still egg in my hair!”

“You should have washed it out earlier, dummy.”

The door slams behind them and it’s only you and Dirk.  You wonder where Dave could be.  He missed breakfast.  Maybe you should have saved him some toast?  Oh well, it’s his fault for not coming down on time.

“I’ll be in the basement if you get possessed,” Dirk says, breaking your reverie.  “Try not to get possessed.”

“I’ll do my best,” you grin at him and he runs a hand through his spiky hair before turning and disappearing behind a door you hadn’t noticed earlier.

You look around once he’s gone, inspecting the bookshelves.  Sadly, there are no copies of _Colonel Sassacre's Daunting Text of Magical Frivolity and Practical Japery_ , not that the hefty tome would fit on the tiny shelves, but still, it would have been nice to see the familiar spine. 

You glance over at the game consoles, but inevitably, you’re drawn to the piano, running your fingertips reverently across the glossy black surface.  You haven’t played in months, and the few times you have over the past couple years it was on the crappy keyboard in one of UW’s common areas.  Of course, there’s a piano at your house, an antique upright, old but kept perfectly in tune, only you can’t play that one. Dad had given it to mom on their tenth anniversary.  It was the piano you had learned to play on, and when you sit on its bench you can still hear your mother’s voice, her presence beside you, the memory of her guiding your little fingers through the scales and praising you with tickles when you got them right.

Yet whenever you go home now, you can’t bring yourself to play it.  Not because you can’t stand it, but because you can’t stand the look your father gets when he hears you.  He’s broken by the sound of your playing and you refuse to cause him pain, which is exactly why you’re majoring in biology, not musical studies.

You lift the top, propping it carefully.  Your mom always told you the only way to play a grand piano is with the top open, that way the magic isn’t muffled.  Because pianos are pure magic, she would say, poking at your sides until you dissolved in giggles. 

Sitting at the bench, you brush lightly across the keys, grinning at the tinkling notes.  The last time you played a piano this nice was at your last recital, when you were fifteen. 

You start out with Yurima’s “Maybe”.  Your high school girlfriend, Vriska, used to love this song, but you like it because your mother would sometimes play it for you and Jane before bedtime.  You smile to yourself as you play, lost in sound and memory, allowing the melancholic ache from earlier to spread, blooming in your chest and working its way into your fingers as they dance over the keys. 

You’re halfway through Yurima’s first album when you’re interrupted by a quiet cough behind you. You jump, “On the Way” cutting off flatly as your fingers miss the next note by a mile.

“Someone’s tense,” Dirk teases, smirking at you when you turn to face him.

“I guess so,” you reply, although you’re not surprised you didn’t hear him come up behind you.  Jane used to wonder how you could play so well for someone who became deaf the moment you touched ivory. 

“I didn’t even know that thing still worked.”

“It’s a little out of tune, but that’s easy to fix," you shrug.  "Wait, why do you have a huge piano if you can’t play it?”

“It came with the house.  Pretty much everything here is the same as when I inherited it.  I only changed the basement, where I live.  The whole flowery old lady deco thing is too ironic for anyone to pull off.”

You laugh.

“Yeah, I was kind of curious about that.  I mean, it doesn’t really seem like it’d be your style.”

Not that you really know what his style is, but you're reasonably sure it's not that of an eighty year old woman.

“By the way, what the hell is a smuppet?” you ask, reminded of Dave’s warning.

Dirk raises his eyebrows, obviously amused.

“Do you really want to know?”

He leans down slightly, voice lowering and a playful grin hovering on his lips, kind of like Vriska used to do when she wanted something from you.  Wait, is he—is he flirting with you? 

“Ha, um, I don’t know, it's just that Dave told me to—”

Suddenly you feel yourself being pulled up and shoved roughly backward, Dirk’s forearm pressing into your chest, pinning you to the wall.  You look at him in shock.  He’s leaning over you, face inches from yours, mouth is pulled into an angry snarl.

“What the fuck did you just say?” 

His voice is low, dangerous.  You can see the freckles sprinkled across his nose and cheeks.

“I—I just, Dave, he said—”

Dirk slams you against the wall and you bite back a cry of pain, feeling your shoulder blade strain at an odd angle.

He stars muttering lowly in some language you don’t recognize.  You try to struggle, shock finally wearing off, your heart jackhammering, but although you’re not weak, he’s pissed and holds you without much trouble.

“What—what the fuck?  Dirk?”

The muttering stops and he just stares at you, breathing heavily.

“We’re back!  John?  Dirk!  What’s going on?”  Jade rushes into the room, throwing aside the bags in her arms, Karkat stumbling after her.

She pulls at Dirk’s shoulder, confusion etched on her face.

“Let him go, Dirk.  What’s going on?  What happened?  John?” she implores, turning to you when Dirk doesn’t respond.

“I—I,” you falter, unable to look away from Dirk’s face.

“How are you not possessed?” he mumbles.

“John!” she snaps, finally managing to push the other man off of you.  You blink at her, focusing on her stern green eyes.

“I’m not sure,” you glance at Dirk, who’s still glaring at you.  “I just mentioned Dave and he—Jade?  Jade, are you okay?”

Her face had gone pale, eyes widening.

“How do you know Dave?” she whispers.

You shake your head, your eyebrows coming together as your confusion grows.

“What do you mean?  He was in my room when I woke up—Jade?”

She steps away from you, glancing at Dirk as her face breaks into a brilliant smile.

“In your room?  He’s back.  He’s back, Dirk!”

She takes off, running to the stairs, calling Dave’s name.

“Wait, Jade, what are you talking about?” Karkat calls, rushing after her.

“Shit,” Dirk mutters, flashstepping away.

Okay, what just happened?  You shake your head again but you’re still left confused and alone, so you follow the others, taking the steps two at a time. 

Bursting into your room, you find Jade on her knees on the floor, hand pressed to her mouth as silent sobs shake her frame, Karkat kneeling beside her with a comforting hand on her shoulder.  Dirk stands on her other side, surveying the room, expression cut from stone.  But Dave is there too, crouching in front of Jade, one hand partly extended as if debating whether or not to touch her.

“What are you guys doing?  He’s right—”

“John,” Dave cuts you off, looking up to meet your eyes.  “They can’t see me.”

“What?  What the hell?  Why not?”

Dirk looks at you sharply, but you ignore him, focusing on Dave, on the tiny frown turning his mouth.  He shrugs, putting his hand down with a last glance at Jade before straightening.

“Because I’m dead."

 _Well,_ you think, rocking back a step. You certainly weren’t expecting that.  

“John, who are you talking to?” Dirk asks.

You look at him, struggling for an articulate answer as though your mind isn’t doing backflips.

“No, wait, John,” Dave interrupts.  “Don’t tell him.  Not in front of Jade.”

You nod at him slowly, blankly.  _Dave is dead.  You’re talking to a dead guy and what the fuck you never even thought_ The Sixth Sense _was that cool._

“No one,” you reply, unable to keep yourself from staring at Dave.  He looks so solid, just as real as you or Dirk.  “There’s no one here.”  

Dirk understands immediately.

“Karkat, take Jade.  Get her something to drink.”

Karkat nods, helping her up.

“C’mon, Jade,” he murmurs, guiding her out the door.  She sniffles, looking around a last time, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand.

When they leave, Dirk turns to you, his expression unreadable.

“You see Dave, don’t you.”

It isn’t really a question, but you nod in reply anyway.

“Shit!”

Dirk slams an open palm against the wall and you jump, finally looking away from Dave to watch Dirk slide down the wall, head in his hands.

“You’re not supposed to be here, man,” he mumbles.  “What the fuck are you doing here.”

Dave shakes his head, blond hair flopping over his shades.

“He’s such a fucking drama queen.  Where the fuck else am I supposed to go?”

You’re uncomfortable, unsure if you should act as Dave’s voice, but Dirk speaks first.   

“Congratulations, Blue Eyes.  You’re a medium.”

You blink at him and then at Dave before slumping against the wall and sliding down, leaning your head back with a sigh and staring up at the ceiling.  The spider is gone.

“This means I can’t go home in a few days, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah, probably.  Never actually met a medium before.  But the ones I’ve heard stories about had shit-tastic lives.  Died young, lots of blood and guts, usually.”

You groan and Dave sits beside you.

“Tell him he’s being a dick,” he says.

You relay the message and Dirk grins weakly, hands falling from his face.

“Miss you too, lil bro.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the lovely comments and kudos! It makes this so much more fun to write

Dave shifts beside you and look at him, really look, at the way his sunglasses make tiny indents on the side of his nose, the constellation of freckles across his face, the way he’s chewing on the corner of his lip, uncomfortable.  How could someone this real be dead?

And yet you know undoubtedly, he’s not flesh and bone.  There’s something absent about him, a distinct lack of presence.  It’s more obvious when you’re so close together.  The rise and fall of his chest is even, but you can’t feel the air from his exhales or the subtle warmth of his body heat, can’t hear the rustle of his clothing as he extends his legs.

He catches you staring and smirks.

“Like what you see, hot stuff?”

You snort.

“Sorry, Dave, I don’t go for dead guys.”

He grins, shaking his head, but his humor drops when he looks at Dirk, who’s staring at you.  You blush when you realize it sounds like you’re flirting with his younger brother’s ghost.  Which you guess you kind of were, but just in a friend way, you swear.  Can you call Dave your friend?  You haven’t even known him for a day but being around him feels so natural, despite his status as Not Currently Living.

“What’d he say?” Dirk asks softly.  He’s pulling a flawless poker face, but the emotion in his voice is clear and you wish again you could take off his shades, sensing intuitively that his eyes are just as expressive.

You open your mouth but look at Dave first, searching for a message to give.

“Tell him he’s turning into one ugly fucker in his old age.”

“He says he misses you too.”

Dirk scoffs and Dave gives you a sour look.

“You’re the shittiest medium ever, Egbert,” they say simultaneously and you can’t help but laugh.

“What?” Dirk questions, while Dave groans.

“I fucking hate it when we do that,” he whines, but you ignore him, smiling at Dirk.

“You guys said that at the same time. Which reminds me, what the hell do you mean I’m a medium?  Like I have to hold séances and commune with the undead and stuff now?”

“I’m not the undead, moron,” Dave tells you.  “Things that are dead are dead, there’s no ‘un’ involved.  That’s the most idiotic concept ever.  Why not just call dead things the ‘unliving’ if you’re going to use that idea? 

“‘Hey, neighbor, where’s Sally?’

“‘Oh, she’s unliving.’

“‘No shit, now we have too many fucking hotdogs at this shitty barbeque.’

“‘Hope she gets undead soon so she can stuff her goddamned face.’”

“Oh my god, Dave!  Shut up for like half a second!” you laugh.  

Dirk had started speaking but you can’t hear him over Dave ranting in your ear.

“God, you don’t have to be so grumpy about it,” he grumbles, crossing his arms and sinking lower on the wall.  “Haven’t talked to anyone in like four fucking years but that’s cool, just ignore the dead guy.  I get it, John, you have more important things to do, don’t let me keep you from holding a more _lively_ conversation.”

You giggle.  He’s so ridiculous; he actually sticks out his lower lip when he pouts.  

Dirk’s staring at you and there’s something off about his stoic expression now, it’s cracked, leaking an emotion you can’t place.  

“Sorry,” you offer, feeling your ears redden. 

This has to be the most fucked up reunion ever and you know you’re not helping the matter by being the awkward intruder, like a translator third wheeling it on a date between a Russian and… someone who doesn’t speak Russian.  You suppose Dave would be the Russian in that scenario.  Although is it weird that your metaphor involves the brothers going on a date? 

Oh, shit, Dirk started saying things again.

“No, séances are bullshit.  And communing is easy, obviously, you’re doing it now even if you’re doing a shit job.  Yo, Egbert, you even listening?”

“What?  Yeah, of course, sorry.”  You grin sheepishly and he lets out a strained sigh. 

“I know jack-shit about mediums, but I’ve got a friend who can explain things to you,” he grunts, standing.  You and Dave look up as he runs a hand through his hair.  Are his fingers shaking?

You want to say something to him, to reassure him somehow, but your mouth won’t open and he’s staring at you, unmoving, and then he’s gone and you’re left hurt and angry, instinctively knowing the emotions you’re feeling don’t belong to you.

“Hey,” Dave says after a stretch of companionable silence, “do me a favor and tell that dumbass that I’m good now.  Y’know, just the next time you see him or whatever.”

You nod.

“Hey, Dave?”

“What?”

“How’d you die?”

He’s quiet for a minute and you think maybe you’ve pried too far, but he answers a moment later with a weary voice.

“I was sixteen.  Dirk was twenty-two and knew fuck-all about demons and shit, just that they’re homicidal dead things.  I got possessed and almost killed him; he managed to kill the demon first.  But I ended up dying too.  It was an accident, not his fault or anything, but the dumbfuck still blames himself.”

As you try to process this he sits in silence, fiddling idly with a hole in the knee of his jeans.

“Why are you still here, then?  Isn’t there… anywhere else for you to go?”

He snorts, pushing to his feet abruptly.

“What, like heaven or something?”

“I guess,” you reply, watching him start to pace.

“Tell me if you find it ‘cause I’ve got no fucking clue.  All I’ve got is just a whole ‘nother plain of existence with a bunch of half-formed dead people wandering around and bumping into each other until they forget who they are and disappear completely.”

A Texas accent you hadn’t noticed earlier grows more pronounced as he speaks.  He shoves his hands in his pockets as if trying to keep himself from gesturing.

“Maybe there’s some other place to end up but no one fucking _knows_ , it’s like a goddamned murder mystery except everyone’s already dead and no one fucking wonders _where_ anyone goes, ‘cause why the fuck would they care?  Most of them couldn’t even tell you their own name, they just… drift around.”

He stops, pinching the bridge of his nose.  _He’s scared,_ you realize.  _He thinks the same thing will happen to him._

“So you stay here.  To make sure you don’t forget yourself,” you say.  He looks at you, shrugs, sits down again against the opposite wall. 

“It’s not just, boom, I decide I don’t want to be dead so I’ll go chill with the living.  It takes a lot of energy to stay on this side.”

He’s tugging at the loose threads in his jeans again and forces himself to stop, readjusting his glasses and scratching the back of his neck.  For such an inexpressive guy he has an awful lot of tells.

“How do you know Jade?” you ask, mostly just to change the subject to something potentially more comfortable.

“I met her when we were kids, after Dirk and I moved here.  She lives like a mile away.” 

He waves his hand, presumably motioning toward her house.

“When’d you move here?”

“I was thirteen.”

And he died when he was sixteen?  That would make Dirk eighteen when they moved, still a teenager but taking care of a kid.

“Why’d you move here?”

He looks away, pulling at his jeans.

“Our old foster parent willed it to us.”

So they were close?  Another parental figure they lost?

“When’d you move to a foster home?”

“I was ten.”

His parents died ten years ago then, just like your mom.

“Why’d you move to a foster home?”

“’Cause—y’know what, cool it with the twenty questions, Egbert.  This isn’t a fucking game show.”

 _Oops_.  You’d gotten caught up in your interrogation, your need to understand Dave and his past.

“Sorry.”

“Yeah, you better be fucking sorry, Egbert,” someone who is not Dave says. 

It’s Karkat, leaning into the room to look at you.  Well, glare at you, more like.  But really, he doesn’t seem to do much else with his face, so you might as well just say ‘look’.

“What the fuck was all that about?  Jade’s still crying and you have some explaining to do, jackass.”

You flinch, resisting the urge to slap a palm to your forehead.  Shit, what are you going to tell Jade?

“You better go, man,” Dave tells you.  “See you around, Egderp.”

He flickers, form cutting out of focus like the static of a TV with bad reception, and when you blink he’s gone.  Fucking cool-ass ghosts. 

“I’m coming,” you sigh, hefting yourself up and following Karkat downstairs.

Jade is sitting at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around a mug of coffee, teary eyes staring into the black surface vacantly.  She looks up when you enter, wiping her face hastily.  Dirk is leaning against the counter and you can’t tell whether or not he’s staring at you.

“Egbert,” he says, straightening abruptly.  “A word.”

He pushes past you, shoulder brushing yours as he strides into the living room.  When he stops you almost run into his chest as he turns suddenly, bracing a hand against the wall behind you so he can lean over you.

“Jade doesn’t need to know that her childhood sweetheart is wandering around the house.  And Karkat isn’t connected to this so don’t get him involved, got it?”

“Sure,” you reply. 

That sounds easier anyway, but he doesn’t move and you can feel anger radiating from his body language.

“Oh, and Dave wanted me to tell you—,” you start, but Dirk stiffens immediately and the scrape of his nails against plaster when he clenches the hand over your ear makes you flinch.

“I don’t want to fucking hear it, Egbert.”  His voice is tight and low, a strained growl.

“But—”

“I haven’t talked to the kid in four years and I’m not going to start now just so I can stop when you leave.  So don’t fucking talk to me about my brother.  I don’t want to hear it.”

He moves away finally, looking over his shoulder toward the kitchen, which had gone quiet.  He sighs, rolling his neck once before facing you again.

“Just… Just be good for him, okay?” he says quietly, voice shifting as rapidly as his demeanor.  He flashsteps away before you can reply.

Would it kill him to have a normal conversation?  Or does everything have to be said mockingly, bordering hostility, and then end with a fleet footed disappearance?  Well, you have to admit the flashstepping is pretty cool, but still!  How does anyone talk to him for more than a minute? 

You sigh, brushing off Dirk and his social issues as you reenter the kitchen, pulling up a chair.

“Hey, Jade,” you greet her with a sunny smile and she smiles back, though not quite as sunny.

“So, I’m really sorry about all that stuff I was saying earlier.”  Her eyes snap to yours and you find it difficult to maintain the contact.  Lying has never been your strong suit.

“I guess that spirit guy that possessed me messed with my head more than I’d thought.  I, uh, hallucinations can be pretty convincing,” you offer lamely.

She watches you, a finger tracing patterns on the table absently.

“You’re a really awful liar,” she finally says.  You wince.  Shit, why couldn’t you manage a simple fib?  Nic Cage would be ashamed.

“N—No, wait, why would I be lying?” you try, the effect ruined as you trip over the words.

“It’s fine, John,” she sighs, looking down at her hands.  The patterns become larger, fingers creating swirling circles across the wood.  “You don’t have to tell me exactly what you saw, and I’m not going to pry.”

She meets your eyes and you can see the tears in hers, although they don’t fall.  She smiles.

“I just want my friend to be happy.”

Words fail you so you just look at her, warmth spreading through your chest.

“Where’s Rose?” Dirk interrupts, poking his head through the doorway.

“What do you mean?  I thought she went to UW?”

He swears, saying “her car’s still in the driveway,” before flashstepping up the stairs.

“Shit,” Jade breathes, her eyes widening.  “Not again.”

She runs up the stairs with Karkat in tow and you throw your hands in the air.  Apparently taking off dramatically is going to be a thing in this house.

You roll your eyes as you go after them.  At least you’ll be in shape by the end of your stay.

Chaotic sound pours from Rose’s room, Dirk muttering and Karkat shouting and pulling at Jade who is trying to kneel beside Rose’s form amid a messy floor.  But that only registers distantly as you stare at Rose, or what you can only vaguely recognize as Rose.  Her thin face is completely darkened, flushed with writhing shadows, wild black tangles twisting as though trapped beneath her skin.  Her eyes are open, only the whites visible.  But most terrifying is her laughter, the horrific, manic laughter spilled from her gaping mouth as she lies prostrate on the ground.  Suddenly she bucks, arching her back and letting out a shrill scream, her nails scouring the floorboards as Dirk’s muttering ends.  Is this really what happened to you?  To Jade and Karkat? 

You watch, transfixed as the darkness rises, condensing at the surface of her skin before slowly leeching out of her, dragged from her flesh, pulled upward as though drawn by a magnet.  She shudders through the process, hands tensed like claws at her sides.  Finally it’s over and the cloud of black hovers above her for a moment before darting to the side, stretching into a grotesque approximation of a human figure and beginning to consolidate.  Dirk’s sword flashes forward before it becomes solid, slicing through cleanly.  It shrieks as it dissolves, the threads stringing it together fraying and disappearing completely.  But the screech lingers, a high pitched, grating sound that has you clapping your hands over your ears and falling to your knees with a cry.

It takes a moment before you can perceive anything beyond the ringing in your ears, but the first thing you become aware of is Dirk’s hand on your shoulder, large and warm.  He’s crouching in front of you, repeating your name as you blink open your eyes.  

“Egbert.  John, hey, can you hear me?”

His voice is muffled, but you nod, wincing and touching your ear gingerly.  You freeze in shock when your finger comes away warm and wet.

“What the fuck was that about?” Dirk asks as you inspect the blood on your fingers.

“You couldn’t hear it?”

He huffs, shifting away from you.

“Obviously not, Blue Eyes.  Hear what?”

“The demon.  It screamed when you killed it.”

He stares at you blankly before shaking his head.

“Fucking mediums,” he mumbles.  “My friend Roxy should be here in a few hours, she knows more about all this supernatural shit than I could tell you.”

He sighs, looking over at Rose, who’s still lying on the floor with closed eyes.  She looks peaceful now, Jade tucking a pillow under her blonde head and stroking her hair gently.

“C’mon.  You’re gonna get blood everywhere and that shit’s a pain in the ass to clean.”   

He stands and you try to copy him, but your legs feel boneless and he has to grab your arm to keep you from falling over.

“It’s like taking care of goddamned children,” he gripes under his breath, leading you to the bathroom.

He lets you go when you walk through the door, propelling you toward the tub with a push to your lower back.  You sit on the edge, watching him rifle through the medicine cabinet.  He’s trying to ignore you, you can tell.  His jaw is set, and you watch the muscle jump as he pulls out Tylenol and gauze.  He wets the gauze and tosses it to you without looking, stepping out to hover over Rose.  He picks her up, gently slipping an arm under knees and behind her head.  She looks tiny against his chest, fragile and frail.

You wonder how many times she’s been through this and a sudden anger surges in your chest.  This isn’t fair.  She’s a college student, the same age as you, with her whole life in front of her, but how is she supposed to have a career if she’s getting possessed every other day?  You watch Dirk lay her on her bed, your anger hardening into something you haven’t felt since your mother was sick; a protective, steely determination.  This shouldn’t happen to her.  To anyone.  

You blink when you notice Karkat snapping his fingers in front of you.

“Hey, Egbert, did that thing melt your brain?  You’re dripping blood everywhere, moron.”

He takes the gauze from your hands and wipes at the side of your head, catching the track along your jaw that had dribbled onto your shirt.  

“How many times has she been possessed?” you question, ignoring his exasperated noise when you move your head.

“How the fuck am I supposed to know?  I don’t pry into her personal life; I’m just here until this ghost shit—”

He cuts off his shouting abruptly, exhaling upward to blow his bangs off his forehead.

“Fuck it, this is exhausting.  I don’t know, but it seems pretty damn regular.  Now stop moving around so much.”

He finishes wiping off the blood and throws away the gauze, leveling you with a stern scowl.

“Your ears were probably bleeding because you ruptured your eardrums, so if you can’t hear very well, that’s why.  They heal on their own, so keep your whining to yourself because no one wants to fucking hear it.”

You nod, thanking him.  His glare softens fractionally as he stares at you, his brows pulling together.

“This world’s fucked up,” he says softly.  You look up at him, surprised, but he’s not facing you anymore, he’s watching Jade place a chair next to Rose’s bed, the dark haired girl taking her friend’s pale hand in her own.

“Good luck with whatever shit you’ve gotta go through, Egbert.  I don’t envy you.”

He leaves you with that discouraging statement, fists shoved in his pockets as he walks away. 

Karkat doesn’t even know about you being a medium, which is still a vague and confusing topic.  You don’t want to think about it.  It’s been a long day already, one of the longest you can remember, and it’s hardly after noon.

Feeling drained, you stumble into your room and flop onto the bed, wondering how exactly this has become your reality.

A minute later you’re being shaken awake, your eyes popping open as the blood-spattered battlefield of your dream fades from focus.

“Nap time’s over, Egbert,” says Dirk, smirking.  “There’s someone here to see you.”

He’s gone a second later, you blink after him groggily.

What the fuck is up with that guy and flashstepping?  Seriously, you should get him a leash or something.  Or at least a bell to wear around his neck, like a cat.

Rubbing at your heavy eyelids, you pull yourself up with a yawn, tugging your phone out from under you.  You hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but whatever, you feel better now.   _Wow, a long nap_.  It’s already after 5 you realize, squinting at the bright screen of your phone.

If your dad were here he’d probably tell you you were wasting the day and then leave a note under your pillow to say he was proud of you for being responsible with your sleeping habits.

The thought makes you smile as you drag yourself from the dark room.

Downstairs is busy, the only identifiable source a pretty blonde woman with black lips and pink eyes.  She’s twirling around the kitchen, her skirts flying up as she squeals with laughter.  Rose is at the table, watching her with idle amusement while Dirk lounges against a wall, arms crossed and mouth thinned.  Jade is clapping in the corner, jumping up and down in an attempt to get Karkat to dance with her.

“Dirky!” the blonde woman cries.  “You’ve got to turn on some music!”  She stretches the ‘u’ in ‘music’ as she spins faster, throwing her head back and her arms above her, poised like a ballerina.

“Rox,” Dirk monotones, “you’re going to break something.”

She slows to a halt, pouting at him. 

“You’re no fun.  Oh lookie!  Haley Joel Osment decided to join the party!  Oh, wow, his eyes are _really_ blue!”

You freeze in the doorway, blushing.

She rushes forward and grabs your hands, pulling you into a chair and plopping herself in one opposite you.

“Now, John,” she says seriously, leaning forward with her hands on knee and staring you in the eyes.  “I heard you’ve got some crazy new ghosty powers and I’m here to tell you: don’t let mean ol’ Dirky scare you!  Ghosty powers are the shit!  You can do all sorts of things like—”

“Roxy,” Dirk interjects.  “Didn’t I ask you not to drink before you came?”

She rolls her eyes with a huff.

“Yes, _mom_ , I haven’t been drinking!  I told Rosie I’d stop so that’s what I’m gonna do.”

“Then quit talking bullshit.”

“It’s not bullshit!  From a shaman to a medium—”

Dirk groans, leaning his head against the wall.

“You’re not a shaman, Rox, we’ve had this discussion at least twenty times.”

“I am so a shaman!  I’m the most shaman person here!”

“In her defense,” chimes Rose, “her abilities are remarkably similar to those shamans of animist tribes were thought to be capable of.”

“Rose, you’re just encouraging her.”

Roxy rolls her eyes again, opting to ignore him.

“Don’t listen to Dirky McSourpuss, John,” she stage-whispers, cupping a hand over her mouth.  “He’s just grumpy because he doesn’t get to use our awesome ghosty powers.”

You smile at him over Roxy’s shoulder, raising an eyebrow.  _Dirky?_   He shrugs.

“So what are these ‘ghosty powers’?  Do I get to like, control the underworld?”

She giggles.

“No, silly.  As a _shaman_ ,” here she throws a pointed look at Dirk, “I’m able to communicate with spirits and differentiate between the malevolent ones and the benevolent ones, but I can’t see them unless they choose to appear to me.  Unlike what you can do, Mr. Baby Blues.”

She grins, punching your arm.  _Ow,_ you wince.  That seemed a little harder than necessary.

“You’re like a ghost emissary, only much cuter than the other ones I’ve met,” she wrinkles her nose, momentarily lost in apparent remembrance of mediums with unsatisfying levels of cuteness.

“You see spirits, hear them, touch them; it’s all within your range.  Plus for people like us,” she waggles her fingers at you, “exorcisms usually pack more punch, since we’re super fab with the witchy stuff, but we’re also like, ten times as likely to get possessed, which pretty much blows.”

She looks over at Rose, brief concern clear in her bright eyes before she smiles widely, slinging an arm across the younger girl’s shoulders.

“That’s why my baby sister has gross pervert demons after her hot bod all the time.”

Oh, _sisters_.  That actually makes a lot of sense.  They can practically pass as twins, although Rose’s gravity serves as sharp contrast to Roxy’s bubbly persona. 

“So she only gets possessed because she’s your sister?” you ask, looking between them quizzically.

“Supernatural-ness tends to run in the blood.  Your father’s sister’s hamster’s great-uncle was probably a psychic or some bogus shit like that.”  Is that cool…?  Or should you be concerned?  You decide it’s both cool and concerning because who knew you were a ghost whisperer?  

“So what’s going to happen to John?” wonders Jade. 

She and Karkat are being unusually quiet; you’d forgotten they were there.  Uh oh.  You glance at Dirk to see if he’s bothered since you’re pretty sure this constitutes ‘getting them involved’, but he’s as expressionless as ever.

Roxy sighs dramatically at Jade’s question.

“He’ll be fine as long as he can defend himself.  Enter Momma Lalonde,” she says, standing and sweeping her arms in a grand gesture.

“Shamans are the only ones who can bless weapons, which makes them fancy and magical and demon-be-gone-y.”

“Oh, so you don’t actually have to use anime swords?”

Roxy giggles, shooting a look at Dirk, who stares back blandly.

“Nope, Dirk’s just a giant weeaboo.”

“You mean ironic as fuck.”

“I’ve seen your posters, Dirk.  You have a problem.”

“Fuck you, my posters are the shit.”

“You have a fucking case full of collector’s edition figurines.  And don’t think I haven’t noticed the Rainbow Dash blanket.”

Isn’t that one of the horses from the colorful pony show?

He points a finger at her.

“Rainbow Dash gets a pass,” he says austerely.  “Her spunk cannot be contained.”

She squints at him, opens her mouth, closes it.

“I’m seeing you in a new light, Strider,” Karkat snorts.

You and Jade giggle while Rose grins into her hand. 

Dirk surveys the room with a frown.

“Fuck you guys; it’s this kind of shit that makes me think maybe friendship isn’t magic after all.”

Roxy bursts out laughing as he flashsteps away, flipping her off eloquently.

“No, Dirky, come back, I’m so sorry,” she cries after him, but she can barely get the words out through her giggling.

“I can’t believe _that’s_ the shitstain I owe my life to,” Karkat grumbles.  “A fucking anime nerd.”

“Wow, Karkles, I’m surprised you can talk trash through your mountains of romantic comedies,” Jade giggles.

“All the movies I like are fucking _masterful_ examples of exquisite cinema.”

“Karkat, despite what you think, _Dirty Dancing_ is not better than _Back to the Future._ ”

“Oh, shit, sounds like Jade’s throwing down.  You gonna take that, Karkles?” Roxy eggs.

“They travel to the fucking _future_ in a fucking _car_ , Jade!”  Karkat shouts.  Apparently he’s not going to take that.  “You know what that’s not?  Fucking _possible_!”

Roxy laughs loudly, throwing her head back.  When she laughs, she puts her whole body into it, shoulders shaking, hands clapping like a gleeful child.

You decide you like her.

She turns to you, a wide smile still splitting her face.

“C’mon, Mr. Baby Blues, I’ve got some things just me and you gotta chat about.  Some Dirk things.”

She wiggles her eyebrows before taking your arm and leading you into the living room, throwing herself into a leather couch.  You sit across from her.

“Did we really offend him?” you ask.  You don’t want to honestly offend your host, even if he is kind of a dick.

“No way,” she grins.  “He wanted to ditch us anyway; he’s probably down in his cave working on his robots.” 

“He has robots?” 

You have to admit that's pretty awesome.

She grins at your excitement, her eyes softening in a way that makes you suddenly self-conscious.  You try to tone back your smile.

“He builds them.”

“How’s he know how to do that?”

She shrugs.

“It’s just something he does.  He probably taught himself, stubborn little fucker that he is.”

The affection in her voice is clear, paired with a gentle smile you think she might not be aware of.

“How long have you known him?”

Her eyes snap to your face before she answers, pink irises glinting sharply.

“We were stuck in the same foster home for a while when we were sixteen.  Right after my dad died and my mom scooted, my sister and I were separated for a while and Dirk and Dave were my family.  You know Dave, don’t you?  He’s here?”

You nod, your mouth dry.

“I thought he seemed grumpier than usual.  You told him Dave’s still around, yeah?”

You nod again, struck mute. 

"Dirk would kill me if he knew I was telling you this, but Dave was possessed when he was a kid.  He killed their parents.  Dave was shaken and it took a long time for him to move on, if he ever really did.  But Dirk was shattered.

“He’s broken, John.”  Her voice is quiet, still, solemn.  Her intelligent stare grips you and you can’t move.

“Losing Dave broke him.  He started this house six months after it happened and he hasn’t done anything but try to help people ever since.  It’s noble, but it’s killing him. 

"It may be a lot to ask, but he’s my best friend and I’ll do anything for him.  So be good for him, John.  He may not know what he needs, but I do.”

She breaks into a sudden smile, her ponderous air evaporating.

“Now let’s play cards, Johnny-boy.  We’ve got some getting-to-know-you to do.”

*****

Three hours of cards and a movie later you trudge up the stairs with heavy legs, heavy eyes, heavy everything.  This whole house seems to be pushing on your shoulders, pressing you into the floor.  Fleetingly, you wonder if this is how Dirk feels, if this is what he has to deal with.  But you’re too tired for those kinds of thoughts.  You shake your head, glasses slipping down the bridge of your nose before you slide them off, leaving them on the dusty dresser and falling onto the bed.  It groans in protest, springs whining gratingly.  You don’t care.  Sleep is the only thing that matters now.  Consciousness is for losers.

“Long day at work, hon?”

You groan, squeezing your eyes shut.  Despite this, the blond doesn’t go away.

“Let me make it better, sugar.”

“Sleep is now, Dave,” you mumble, somewhat incoherent.

He snorts, his voice now coming from somewhere near your head.

“You took like a twenty hour nap, Egbert.  I can’t allow this kind of wasteful indulgence in my house; you young people need to be up and active.  You should be doing some goddamn jumping jacks, not passing out on your lazy ass.”

“Hush, Dave,” you say, reaching a hand up without opening your eyes.  “Sleep is now.” 

You flail until you hit his face, clapping your hand over his mouth as he makes a startled noise.  He’s surprisingly warm for a dead person, his skin humming with static electricity beneath your fingers. 

“Dude, what the fuck,” he mumble through your hand.  You remove it, blinking up at him blearily.  His eyebrows are raised, shades slightly crooked.  Huh.  You guess you can touch dead guy accessories too? 

“You just touched me,” he says blankly.

You stare at him.

“Well yeah.  I’m a medium.”  Shouldn’t he know this?  

“Do it again,” he instructs, holding out his hand.

You comply, placing your hand on top of his, again feeling the buzz of energy at the contact.  He stares at your overlapping palms, face inexpressive.  A second later he meets your eyes, breaking into a wide, honest to god smile.

“Dude, holy fuck!  I can feel that!  You’re like, a person, holy fuck, I can fucking touch you!”

He laughs, a surprisingly bright, childish sound, looking at your hands again and tightening his grip on yours.  He reminds you of a little kid on Christmas, rushing to see all the gifts from Santa.  You smile.

“I guess it’s been a while since you’ve felt something.”

He shakes his head slightly, still beaming, watching his fingers where they’re wrapped around your wrist.  You can see him connecting the image and the sensation, linking them like he hasn’t been able to in years.  He’s still for another moment, lost in his own world before he comes back to himself, grin melting into a poker face.

He coughs.

“Alright, dude, quit holding my hand, that’s weird.”

You giggle, rolling your eyes at him.

“You’re such a dork, Dave.  You can pretend you’re not, but I know the truth.”

Your declaration fades into a yawn, and Dave smirks.

“Go to sleep, Egderp.  A sleep deprived medium is fucking useless.”

The last thing you see before your eyes fall shut is Dave reclining against the wall, twisting his hand in front of his eyes, a grin hovering on his lips.

_You’re in Seattle, the sky over your head thick, black, distinctly ominous.  You’re walking down a street you don’t recognize, tired brick storefronts lining either side.  It’s raining, but this is Seattle, so you just pull up your hood and keep trudging forward._

_There aren’t any people around, which you find odd.  Even though it’s late there should at least be someone around, teenagers sporting black outfits smoking in the alleyways, or maybe a business man hurrying past, irritated that his meeting ran late.  But the road is empty and the only sounds are the patter of rain on pavement and the slap of your footfalls._

_You tuck your hands in your pockets and walk faster, keeping your head down.  You don’t want to be here.  Why are you here?_

_You’re struck with a certainty.  There’s someone behind you._

_You run, but your legs won’t move.  Why can’t you run?_

_Hands slide over your shoulders, turning you around._

_It’s a man, tall, a hood obscuring his face._

Are you ready, Heir?

_His voice sounds in your head, a deep rumble that slips through your mind like a cold finger._

_No, you want to say, you aren’t ready.  You aren’t ready._

The Prince waits, Heir.  The Prince waits for you.

_You squirm, feeling rushing into your limbs with the sharp tingle of numbness._

_Bony fingers dig into your shoulder blades, holding you still as the man leans closer._

Hurry home, Heir.

_His hood falls back, revealing a stitched, smiling mouth and horrifically blank white eyes._

You wake with a jerk, breathing heavily.  The room is dark, you’re sprawled across the bedspread, still in your clothes.

Distantly, through the fog of dread swirling in your body, you note that this is the first time you’ve had a dream that didn’t involve unfamiliar elements. 

Because he had been very familiar.  You couldn’t possibly forget the face of the demon that possessed you.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a few ideas for oneshots related to this fic, the first of which might be posted sometime this week, so check it out if you're interested. And if you have any ideas for a oneshot (a scene from another character's pov, or something you'd like to see happen between side characters, anything, really) then talk to me here or message me on tumblr at  
> intern-rob.tumblr.com. I'd love to hear suggestions :)


	4. Chapter 4

But it was just a dream, right?  You have weird dreams all the time; they never mean anything… do they?  You shake your head, reaching over to retrieve your glasses.  You’re definitely not falling back asleep anytime soon.

You’re a medium, which means… you can communicate with dead things?  You hadn’t thought about it before, caught up in the novelty of the situation, but now it hits you that the only thing this development will bring is hardship.

Sure, you can say hi to Dave and that’s great, but not every ghost is as friendly, as you’ve discovered firsthand.  They’re deadly and unpredictable.

You cringe, picturing Rose convulsing on the ground, her thin, upturned face, the sound of her gagging on the demon as it exited her body.

And Roxy said you’re more likely to be possessed in the future, which makes you dangerous.  Dangerous to your sister, your father, to anyone around you.  How could you be so selfish as to return to college, studying for finals and bickering with your sister and setting pranks around your tiny shared apartment with the knowledge that you’re a supernatural time bomb?  What would you be expected to do?  Forget about what happened to you?  To Rose?  The fact that the same thing was undoubtedly happening to hundreds of others?

You can’t do that, not even if you wanted to.

You have this supposed “gift”, as Roxy had called it, but the only perks are magic eyeballs allowing you to watch people struggle with possession in HD. What’s the point if you can’t help anyone?

Your anxious thoughts only snowball until your holding your head in your hands, attempting to rub away your throbbing new stress headache.  No one knows what to do, and if you’re conversation with Roxy proved anything, it’s that she doesn’t understand mediums half as well as she pretends to.

Irritated by your acute helplessness, you throw the sheets off, trying not to slip back into your habit of grinding your teeth when frustrated.  Jane tells you you’re going to have dentures by the time you’re thirty.

Your worry is pointless; you need a distraction.

Although you’ve never exactly been a health nut, you decide that a run would be sufficient to take your mind off things.  Besides, you’re feeling antsy and the exercise will do you good. 

Throwing on shorts and a t-shirt and grabbing your old iPod, you make your way down the squeaky steps as soundlessly as possible.  It’s four in the morning and the thought of waking up Karkat before the sun has risen is enough to scare some quiet into your feet.

“Twenty bucks says five days, tops.”

Dirk’s voice drifts to your ears at the base of the stairs and you pause. 

“He’s not cut out for dealing with the other side; he can barely tie his shoes without help.”

“C’mon, Dirk, that’s not fair, it’s not like you were fuckin’ God of the Ghosties when you started out,” Roxy returns.  Dirk snorts.

Are they talking about you?  You stay where you are, straining to catch the muted conversation.

“He’s not you, Rox, there’s no motivation.  He’ll stay five days and then realize he’s safer on his own.”

“You’re such a Negative Nelly.  I say there’s more to him.  People with eyes like his always have more to them.”

“You’re basing your assumption on his eye color?” he scoffs.

“Well what are you basing yours on?”  The challenge in her tone is clear.

“ _Am_ I safer on my own?” you interpose, stepping into their line of sight.  They’re sitting around the kitchen table, still dressed as they had been earlier in the day. 

Roxy smiles warmly.

“Yeah, hon.  Spirit’s like to hang around places with crowds.  More bodies to choose from and all.”

Is your leaving what’s best for Jane?  She’d never understand why you would drop out of school.  You’d lose your future and consequently estrange yourself from your family, but it would distance them from the threat you pose.

Unless…

“You said supernatural abilities run in bloodlines?” you question, struck with a sickening thought.

Her eyes narrow thoughtfully, mouth quirking into a half-smile.

“Yep,” she replies, popping the ‘p’ at the end of the word.

“So my sister, she could potentially be harboring something like I am?  Something that would make her vulnerable?”

 “You never know with this stuff,” Roxy shrugs.

“Then the same could be true with my dad,” you say, mostly to yourself.  You pull up a chair absently, running plans forgotten.

Leaving them alone and unprepared isn’t the answer, you think, relief welling inside you.  You won’t have to abandon them.  But involving them prematurely could be just as dangerous.  Ignorance won’t protect them, but it can shield them from unnecessary worry.  The last thing you want to put them through is more trauma.  Maybe they’ll never have to know about this side of the world, but they’ll still need someone who does to watch out for them.

“What can I do?” you ask, breaking out of your thoughts to find both Dirk and Roxy staring at you. 

Roxy giggles, shooting a look at Dirk.  He ignores her, his heavy gaze not leaving your face.

“No idea.  We’ve never worked with a medium.”

“But there is something I could do?”

Hope infects your whole body, straightening your back and lifting your voice.

“Maybe.”

You break into a smile, enjoying an unexpected flood of relief.

Maybe is good.  Maybe means you might not be completely useless after all.

“You’re gonna lose your money, Strider,” Roxy snickers.

*****

The days seem to pass quickly after that, hours blurring into each other as you settle into the worn routine of the house.  There’s a simple pattern, bland and rarely disrupted, but peaceful.  It’s a place to recuperate after all, and you enjoy the safe feeling of knowing what’s coming next.

Mornings consist of an early call to Jane and a late breakfast, usually cooked by Karkat since he seems to be the only one who knows anything about kitchen appliances.  Rose often leaves during the day, visiting the university or being picked up by an elegant Middle Eastern girl with short hair, green eyes, and a coy smile.  You’ve never talked to her, and it can’t be helped that every time she arrives you have extremely pressing phone calls to make.  She doesn’t intimidate you.  They’re very important calls.

Interaction with Dirk is sparse due to Roxy monopolizing his time.  Whenever you see him he’s lugging a new variety of shopping bags from their latest excursion into the house, Roxy hanging off his arm and wearing the perfect type of smile you only see in magazines.  Watching them together, the easy way he smirks in response to her free, child-like laughter, you can’t help but wonder if there’s something more than friendship behind the smiles.

You wait for him to mention the whole ‘working with a medium’ deal you had talked about, but he seems intent on pretending it never happened.  After two days of him ignoring you, you decide to take matters into your own hands.  But every time you seek him out he only offers a monosyllabic excuse and absconds hastily.  You’re not giving up so easily of course, but you figure it’s best to wait for an opportune moment to corner him and remind him that you at least haven’t forgotten your conversation. 

Besides, Jade consumes your afternoons, usually dragging along a grumpy Karkat.  She dumps multitudes of projects on you, ranging from planting ten types of tomatoes in the backyard to various confusing experiments relating to science in some way.  All you know is it usually involves setting things on fire and chemicals you’re fairly certain she didn’t obtain legally. 

You quickly discover she loves science of any kind, which is why you’ve accepted that she’s simply majoring in science.  The specifics of her future career baffle you, mostly because every time you ask her, her entire body lights up and she starts gesticulating emphatically as she spews words and phrases you’re sure you’ve only heard in Dr. Seuss books.  Frankly, you just tune her out whenever she goes on one of her tangents.

Karkat usually sulks nearby, intervening when Jade inevitably almost burns herself of drops vials of mercury and hydrogen peroxide.  Although he yells and curses more than anyone you’ve ever met, beneath his layer of surliness you catch glimpses of his genuinely caring nature.  He’s interesting too, and in spite of his determination to remain a mystery you find out he’s actually only eighteen, a high school senior.  You manage to glean that his parents are divorced and he lives with his dad, but information beyond that proves to be tightly guarded.

Regardless of her eccentricities, Jade is a great companion, fast becoming one of the best friends you’ve known.  Karkat too, despite his brand of friendship being a bit more aggressive than you’re accustomed to. 

Dave hangs around too, although not as often as you’d like.  You find yourself wondering why he’s not out during the day before the reality of _oh, that’s right, he’s dead_ descends, along with the familiar ache of grief.  You guess it’s a little weird to grieve for someone you didn’t meet until after he’d died, but you can’t help it.  Dave could have taken so much from the world, given so much back to it.  It’s ridiculous that he died at sixteen, still a fucking child for god’s sake.  Every time you think of him and his decimated future it adds to the anger smoldering in your gut, the determination that was sparked at Rose’s possession.

Usually you only see him late at night, lounging around like you’re the one intruding in his room as opposed to the other way around.  He tends to stay for ten minutes or so, letting you tell him about your day and offering snarky comments in return. 

You get the feeling he wishes he could stay longer, but when you tell him he’s welcome to he only gives you a pointed look and reminds you he’s tethered to another plane of existence.

You keep offering anyway. 

But tonight his absence bugs you.  He’s not obligated to show up, but you can’t help but feel hurt that it’s already midnight and he’s not here.  You sigh, tossing in bed until you find a comfortable position.  Whatever, you’re tired anyway, he’d just keep you up. 

*****

Warm hands shaking your shoulders startle you awake and you snap to consciousness with a smothered cry, terror still squeezing your throat.

“Yo, John, quit thrashing; you’re like a goddamn fish making a pathetic bid for freedom.  You’ve got a fucking hook in your mouth, man, you're not going anywhere so chill the fuck out,” Dave says, releasing you.

You watch his shades catch the moonbeams streaming from the window, panting lightly as the adrenaline drains from your system.  You’d forgotten how reassuring it can be to wake up to a familiar face.

“You good?”

You nod, trying for a grin.  The dream fades quickly; the specifics already lost and only cold dread lingering in the pit of your stomach.

“What the fuck was that, man?”

You shrug, sitting up.  He shifts accordingly, leaning back on his heels.

“Just a dumb nightmare.  It’s nothing.”

He scrutinizes you, eyebrows pulling together slightly.  You’re getting better at reading the nuances of his expressions, and though sometimes it’s still hard to tell what he’s thinking, right now the concern on his face is evident.

“Maybe you’ve forgotten, but you’re a medium, John.  You’ve got the whole deal, full on ghost goggles and paranormal playmates.  Creepy-ass dreams mean more when you have all that supernatural shit going on.”

“Really, Dave,” you say as earnestly as possible.  “It’s fine.  Nothing to worry about.”

Maybe it’s stupid, but you feel protective of the dreams.  You used to tell your dad about them when you were little, but even then never divulging all the details.  They’re personal, and no matter how terrifying they can be you feel the need to guard the people within them, the host of faces you never quite remember when you wake.

He still looks doubtful, but lets it go with a shrug and you relax, releasing a relieved breath.  As great as Dave is, you don’t think he’ll understand why you cling to the nightly torment.  Pathetically, beneath a healthy layer of denial, you recognize it’s because however brief, it’s the only time you feel complete.

“Whatever you say,” Dave mutters, his flickering form distracting you from your thoughts.

“Wait!” you call, stretching out a hand.  You try to grab him, but your fingers phase through his arm, only a faint zap of static registering against your fingertips.

“Why don’t you stay for a while?  If you can, I mean.”

He cuts out of focus once more, but reappears with a silent sigh.

“Why?”

Your mind blanks.

“Um, we could—we should watch a movie!”

His eyebrows disappear beneath his bangs.

“It’s two in the morning.”

“So?  I’m not tired and no one else is awake, so we can talk downstairs while enjoying the timeless classic that is _Contact_.  C’mon, Dave, it’ll be great!”

Excited by the prospect of showing your friend the many virtues of Matthew McConaughey, you‘re already pulling sweatpants over your boxers by the time he replies with an exaggerated groan.

“Dude, no way is the first movie I watch in four years going to be that sci-fi crap.”

You pause at the door, pushing down your offence at _Contact_ being referred to as ‘sci-fi crap’.

“Alright, I think _Dazed and Confused_ is on Netflix.”

He groans once more but follows you down the stairs anyway.

“You’ve never heard of ‘irony’ in your life, have you, Egbert.”

“McConaughey transcends irony, Dave.”

Dave flops on one end of the couch while you turn on the TV and burrow into the pillows, stretching your legs across the cushions.  You don’t notice your calves resting in Dave’s lap until he pushes at them irritably.

“Really?  This is the shit I have to deal with?  Get your fucking legs off of me, you McConaughey-loving piece of shit.”

You laugh, wiggling your toes.  His nose wrinkles in disgust.

“This is exactly why people are not supposed to be able to touch ghosts.”

“Deal with it.”

He gives you a thoroughly unamused look while you grin widely.

“This is ridiculous.  You’re ridiculous.”

You giggle at his disgruntled expression as he surrenders with a grumbled “just start the fucking movie, Egderp” after giving your legs a last halfhearted shove. 

He only lasts five minutes before bursting into indignant commentary.

“This fucking poser, John, look at this fucking poser with is long-ass hair and his chill-ass name.  Pink fucking Floyd.  His very name is a lie.  What the actual fuck.  If this were Pornocchio his dick would be longer than the list his mother has, titled ‘reasons why my son is a disappointment’.”

You shush him with a vehement assertion of Jason London’s genius as an actor.

Two minutes later he decides to vent his frustrations by inserting his own dialogue, which is probably a masterpiece of ironic wit but has you doubled over laughing because _wow_ you know Dave’s a dork but his commentary is surreal.

He persists until you have to hold a hand over his mouth during McConaughey’s entrance because irony be damned when that beautiful man is on screen.

He wrestles away from you, pelting you with pillows and dubbing crude remarks over McConaughey’s lines.

You try retaliating but the pillows go right through him.  Damn his ghostliness.

Half an hour later you manage to exact revenge with your rendition of [“Cherry Bomb”](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ta3EQxSsCFQ), using the remote as your microphone and belting the lyrics with the righteous angst of a thousand teenage girls.  Your performance is complete with your very best seventies dance moves, hair flipping, and a soulful air-guitar solo as you prance through the room.

Dave is in tears, lying on the floor and tossing poorly aimed pillows at you, begging you to stop between shaking bouts of laughter.

Unfortunately, your impromptu realization of your true dream to become a teen rocker is interrupted by a cleared throat a moment later.

You freeze mid-Funky Chicken, lowering your wings in shame before an annoyed Dirk, leaning in the basement doorway with mussed hair and a rather absent shirt.

It can neither be confirmed nor denied that definite ogling of a certain person’s toned abs and freckled shoulders subsequently takes place.  No really, does he live in a gym?

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“Uh…”

You’re a master of the smooth lie.

“Just… had the urge to relive the seventies.”

Dirk stares and Dave snorts, leaning over the back of the couch to look between you and his brother.

“You weren’t alive during the seventies, dumbfuck.”

“Nice one,” Dave snickers and you have a strong urge to throw something at him, but doing so would alert Dirk of his presence, which you have been strictly instructed not to do.  You’ve got this, he’ll never know Dave’s in the room.

Dave deftly snaps your hold of the situation by throwing at pillow at your face.  You don’t react.  Maybe Dirk is too tired to notice the magically propelled projectile.

“I just— go the fuck to sleep, Egbert,” he says in what can only be described as exasperation.  He shakes his head slightly and then turns and disappears down the stairs.

The moment the door slams shut you round on Dave, who’s watching you with an amused smirk.

“Dude!  You got me in trouble with your brother!”

“I wasn’t the one dancing incriminatingly all over the fucking place.  If weren’t too broke to buy a video camera and, y’know, dead, that shit would be all over YouTube.”

You plop on the ground with a huff, scowling up at him.

“My dance moves are the bomb.”

Dave tries to muffle a snorted laugh.

“Egbert, no one’s who has moves that are legitimately the bomb would describe their moves as ‘the bomb’.”

“Okay, fine, so my dad taught me how to dance.  Sue me.”

He snickers, leaning further over the couch to see where you’re sprawled behind it.  You watch his face as it twists suddenly, humor slipping into pain.

“Dave?”

You push yourself up, reaching out a hand to steady him as he wobbles on the edge.

“Sorry,” he mutters, gesturing for you to relax.  “Just kind of… tired.”

His form blinks and you cry out in alarm, stretching forward but only seizing empty air as he vanishes.

“I SWEAR TO EVERY FUCKING GOD, EGBERT, IF YOU DON’T SHUT THE FUCK UP I’M GOING TO SEW YOUR GODDAMN MOUTH SHUT.”

You wince at Karkat’s shout, still staring at the spot Dave had just occupied. 

“Sorry, Karkat!”

The response is a barely audible string of expletives, which you disregard.  So that’s what Dave meant by ‘tethered’.  You remember a conversation you had with him days earlier, about the other side.  He had said it takes energy to stay on this side.  You should have connected the pieces earlier, but it’s too late now, you’ve forced him to use up his batteries. 

Will he be back?  Or did he use up everything he had?  If his energy isn’t renewable then he’ll be stuck on the other side… forever? 

 _Until he forgets who he is._   Your blood turns cold as you recall his jittery pacing, the disdain in his voice as he tried to hide his fear of losing himself. 

“Fuck!” you shout, anger pouring through your system, fire replacing the ice in your veins.  You’re so fucking stupid.

“All for a fucking movie, I can’t—”

You pace forward, snatching the remote from the floor and flicking off the TV.  If Dave is gone it’s your fault.  You should have realized there’s a reason he only stays for short periods.  Now he’ll be trapped in that wasteland on the other side, wandering among the rest of the dead until his identity slips away completely.  How long will it take? 

You feel like crying but you’re too wound up to allow yourself that release. 

“Fuck.  Fuck fuck fuckfuckfuck,” you repeat the word until it tapers off into a meaningless sound and then break off into a low growl of frustration, grinding your teeth together savagely.  Why is there never anything you can do?

You’re supposed to be powerful, aren’t you?  You’re a fucking medium, that’s supposed to mean something!  Why can’t you fix this?  Why can’t you save him, save Rose, save anyone?

You don’t realize you’ve made a decision until you’re halfway down the basement stairs.  Dirk pokes his head out of a room at the sound of your footsteps, eyebrows pulled high over his pointed shades.

“What the fuck are you—”

“You said ‘maybe’,” you grind out, alarmed at the way your voice shakes.

He recovers his composure, relaxing against the doorframe, folding his arms over his bare chest.

“And?”

“What do you mean ‘and’?  I should be doing something!  There are all these fucking people and they’re just dying and I’m not doing a fucking thing about it!  I should—”

“What do you want to do about it, John?” he interrupts softly.

You feel yourself deflate before his question registers, the impact a cold wash of reality.

“I—anything I can,” you manage.  You feel abruptly empty, small.

_There has to be something I can do for once._

He leans closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur.

“No, not what I asked.  What do you _want_ to do about it?” 

You try to meet his gaze but all you see is your reflection in the dark glass, your bloodless face and red rimmed eyes.  _What do you want to do?_

“I want to save them.”  Your voice is raw and your eyes are locked with your reflection, a blurry, weak image.

“They don’t deserve this.  I want to save them.”

“Save who?”

You shake your head, dropping your eyes.  You’re heavy, everything is heavy and all you can see is Dave’s pained expression and your own frightened face.

“Everyone.”  You blink and a stray tear plummets from your lashes.  It hits your sock, a small, dark stain spreading across the toe.  “Anyone.”

“Alright,” Dirk says, leaning away.  You look up at his change in tone, finding a smirk dancing on his lips. 

“I was sure you’d run away, Blue Eyes.  Guess I’ll be paying Roxy after all.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, wow, it's been a while. I didn't mean to have such a huge gap between chapters but writing time was pretty nonexistent for a while there. Hopefully things will be a bit more consistent now! Anyway, thank you so much to everyone who's read this or left kudos or bookmarks, you're all amazing :)

Run away?  What John has he been watching?  You’ve done nothing but try to help since you’ve come here, striving to support Jade in her low moments when her gaze falls blank and she sits completely still for hours, staring at nothing.  Learning to cook in order to help Karkat fix the meals, listening while he vents the rage that continuously clogs his system.  Attempting to help Rose study for her endless exams by lying on the floor in her messy room and throwing balls of paper at her when she gets a question right, because if you threw them when she was wrong you’d hardly get to throw any.  You even pay attention to Roxy’s long and hard-to-follow speeches, not commenting when she gets bored with one topic and jumps to a completely unrelated one without warning.

But that obviously hadn’t proved anything to Dirk.  He responded to your anger, your desperation. 

All he’s seen is your fright, your helplessness in the face of demons.  Rationally, it’s perfectly reasonable for him to assume you would run when the alternative is facing monsters.  But you’re offended at the implication nonetheless.

You’re John Egbert.  If Dirk needs proof of your determination then you’ll give it to him.

Lost in thought, you don’t realize you’re staring at him until his smirk falls.

“What?” he asks, taking a step back.

You blink, scrambling for words. 

“You’ve called me that before,” you say, wincing at your flawless attempt to change the subject. “You keep calling me ‘Blue Eyes’.”

His brow pulls together slightly as he shifts his weight.  You watch him curiously, feeling the start of a smile pulling at your mouth.  It’s the first time you’ve elicited a reaction from him other than anger or indifference.

“Yeah, well, you’ve got fucking unnaturally blue eyes.  Why, is that a problem?”

His gruff response and defensive stance make you laugh despite yourself, causing pink to flood his cheeks.  It’s unexpectedly endearing to see him flustered.

“No, it’s not a problem,” you give him a half-grin and look down at the floor. 

Perhaps you shouldn’t have looked at the floor.

“Um, Dirk?  What’s that?”

You point at the offending object: a bright, plush rump attached to a dopey looking head which extended into a somewhat lewd proboscis.

He snickers, nudging at it with his toe.

“You’ve gotta pay the bills somehow.”

You look between him and the puppet before deciding to drop it.  You’re not sure you’re ready to know what he means by that.

“Right,” you pause, waiting for him to jump in, but he remains silent.  “So, what happens now?”

He shrugs, his mouth falling flat.

“I’ll talk to Roxy and you’ll stay here until we tell you to do something different.”

You process this with a frown.

“I’ll be sitting here doing nothing?  Isn’t there… I don’t know, training or something?  I can prove I’m staying here, really, just give me something and I’ll fight it, or—”

“It’s three o’clock.”

You stare at him, confused.

“So?”

“So it’s three in the morning, John.  As in it is now morning, and the time is three.  Do you know what happens at three in the morning?”

“Uh, ghost boot camp 101?”

“No.  Sleep is the answer we were looking for.”

You scowl, bouncing on the balls of your feet.  Your mind is too active for sleep, riding a confusing wave of anger and hope, guilt and relief.  It’s a feeling you could drown in, so you’re hoping if you ignore it, it will go away.

 His shoulders slump.

“You’re not going to leave me alone, are you?”

Childishly, you shake your head and continue bouncing.

Grumbling “Jesus fucking Christ, I’m not a fuckin’ babysitter, I don’t get paid for this shit” he slips into his room and returns pulling a white t-shirt over his head.

“Boot camp?” you ask brightly.

“Yeah, go outside and walk until you find it” is the response.

You follow him into a larger room at the end of the hall, your jaw falling open when the décor registers.  The walls are covered in posters ranging from anime to horses to maps and pictures, mug shots, family photos, candid shoots, all connected by webs of black string.  Coating the floor are puppets like the one you saw earlier, piles upon piles of them in every color, some even sporting unique human-ish faces.

He wades through the mess and slips through a door as you gape in horror at the nightmarish mounds.  It’s all clear now.  The smuppets.  You’ve found them.

Picking through the smuppets, you find a somewhat organized garage through the door.  Boxes overflowing with scrap metal, wires, and other various mechanical parts line the walls, tools hang from racks in the corners, and a plain workbench sits in the center. You wander through the space with undisguised wonder, paying special attention to the collection of robots behind the bench.

“Did you really build these?” you ask, brushing dust off of the short square in front of you so you can see its face better.

“Yeah.  That one was Dave’s present for his thirteenth birthday.”

Dirk grabs a screwdriver before sitting at his bench.  He’s done with the topic but you continue admiring the robots.  One looks like a replication of Dirk on a slightly smaller scale, intricate pieces of overlapping metal creating unnervingly realistic features.

Once you’ve satisfied your curiosity you straddle an uncomfortable aluminum chair, the only extra furniture in the room, and observe as Dirk fiddles with a metal bunny.

Watching him work is transfixing. His blond head bent over the metal scraps, he has an intense focus you haven't seen in him before. He seems to fall away from the world, just him and his project. Fingers moving deftly, he picks at the parts in front of him, flashing out various tools and machines as he goes. you simply watch, listening to the clicks and scrapes as the parts are fitted together and observing the way the muscles in his arms tense and release fluidly as he moves. Bright orange sparks flare occasionally from a small tool that reminds you of a baby blowtorch, but other than that the workshop is dark. He’s not speaking, and you don't either, unwilling to break his concentration. You lay your head against your hands over the back of the chair and let your mind drift to a blank, peaceful state, lost in in the picture of focus and capability Dirk paints.

*****

You wake with a rush of adrenaline, jerking upright and instantly regretting it when your neck twinges sharply. Wincing, you straighten slower, rubbing at the ache. Falling asleep at a right angle had definitely not been the smartest decision. As you shift something slips off your shoulders and you turn, staring in surprise at the blanket now in a heap on the floor. You glance at Dirk's workbench, which supports a sleeping Dirk. He’s slumped against it in a way that can't possibly be comfortable, head resting on his folded arms.  A slow smile spreads across your face.

He seems vulnerable, although you've experienced the force behind his hands and the speed of his reflexes. But you're glad to see this side of him. it makes him less distant, less "the mysterious ghost hunter", and more... Dirk.

You stand, groaning softly as your knees pop. You’re getting too old for sitting. You pick up the blanket, noting with a grin the colorful pony striking a pose on it.

Treading lightly, you creep up beside him, his face coming into view as you do. His glasses are folded on the table. it could be the absent shades, or his relaxed features, or the usually spiked hair drooped across his forehead, but he looks years younger, hardly older than you. His eyelashes, pale blond and surprisingly long, rake thin shadows across his cheek. You reach up and turn off the lamp on his desk, noticing the papers tucked under his head as you do. Police reports, you discover upon leaning down to inspect them. You shake your head. He never stops working, does he? At least he's sleeping now. You look closer at his face, denying that you're fascinated by the way it seems almost delicate without his ever-present shades. He’s beautiful, really, you think, struck with surprise that you hadn't realized earlier. Of course he is.

You have the urge to touch him, brush along the line of freckles sprinkled over the ridge of his cheekbone or smooth his hair back, gentle and affectionate like the fuzzy memories of your mother doing the same to you. Does he have memories of that brand of love? 

He protects everyone, but who protects him? You sigh and settle for draping the blanket over him before forcing yourself to step away. You’ve already overstepped your boundaries and you don't want this to turn into a creepy I-watched-you-sleep-now-we-have-a-special-bond situation.

You make your way up the stairs and come into an already sun-drenched room.

"Morning, sleepyhead!" chirps Jade, appearing at your shoulder and wasting no time in leaping onto your back. Her legs wrap around your waist as she rests her chin on your head. You manage to stay upright; supporting her by looping your arms under her thighs out of fear she'll fall off and break when she hits the ground. You’re just that tall.

"I see someone had a late start! Or should I say a _Dirk_ start?" she giggles.

"That doesn't even make sense," you groan.

Of course everyone would think _things_ about you spending all night in the basement. Dirk never let anyone but Roxy down there, and even she knew to go down only when invited.

"He didn't kick you out, hmmm? I wonder what that could _possibly_ mean."

She’s still giggling, swinging her legs like a child.

“It doesn’t mean anything, Jade.  He ignored me and I fell asleep.”

“Suuuuuuuuure, John.  You _fell_ asleep.”

You’re too tired to defend against Jade’s nonsensical teasing.

"I need coffee," you grumble, not bothering to put her down.

The other residents are already in the kitchen, along with the Middle Eastern girl you have since discovered is Rose’s girlfriend, Kanaya. Roxy stands as soon as you enter, hopping on top of her chair.

"Today we’re going out, kiddies!" she declares, stabbing the air with a decisive point of her finger.

"We are?" you ask, thrown by her abruptness. But then, that's just Roxy.

"Of course we are! We have to celebrate!  Today is Jade and Karkat's last day in the humble Strider abode."

"What?"

You drop Jade, who makes a surprised noise and manages a graceless landing.

"What do you mean it's their last day?"

"It means tomorrow we're not going to be here, dumbass," grouses Karkat.

"But-- but," you sputter. How could they be leaving?!  "Is that even allowed?  Where will you go?"

"My house!" says Jade brightly. "Don't worry, John, we're not abandoning you. We’ll visit all the time; I bet you'll think we still live here. "

You pin her with a concerned look, but she only laughs and reaches to ruffle your messy hair.

"We’ll be fine, John, really. We can't stay forever."

"Fine. As long as you guys stay safe," you concede.

"Yes, sir," she mocks, snapping a salute.

“Where are we going?” inquires Kanaya, glancing at Rose before directing the question to Roxy.

“Somewhere fun.  Where do you think, Dirk?”

Hands fall on your shoulders and you jump, a high pitched yelp escaping your mouth before the kitchen erupts with laughter.

You turn to scowl at Dirk, who answers with an innocent grin.

“Definitely somewhere fun.”

*****

The ‘somewhere fun’ turns out to be a pizza parlor down the street that Jade insisted on because it has an arcade in the back.  Inside is warm and inviting, the enchanting smell of cheese and crust and the magic that is pizza drawing you forward.  Jade and Karkat immediately head for the arcade along with expressionless Dirk, who throws Roxy, shrieking, over his shoulder and marches toward the arcade, declaring that he’s not leaving until he makes pinball his  beyotch.  He clarifies that he does not mean this literally after a waiter comes up and tells him to leave if he cannot behave, which has you on the practically on the floor with laughter.  You are then also told to behave.

You, Rose, and Kanaya find a table, a wide booth near a window looking over the street.  It turns out Kanaya knows Jane as well, so she and Rose enlighten you with the antics of your intoxicated sister, which you really could have gone without hearing.  By the time the other four return from their Adventures in Gaming three pizzas have arrived. Jade and Karkat sit next to Rose and Kanaya while Roxy pushes Dirk into the seat beside you, giving him a wink that was probably meant to be subtle, but causes Jade to ask what’s wrong with her face.

The pizza is hot and delicious and you’ve forgotten how pizza is actually a religion, or at least your religion, which you share with the table.  This of course heats an argument between you and Karkat over pizza as a religion or simply a religious experience, which Jade says is stupid, because c’mon, it’s practically the same thing.  Kanaya, a philosophy major, jumps in to explain the technical differences and wins the dispute with her declaration that pizza qualifies as a small deity and most likely has a small following, which would make it a religion.  You celebrate the victory with more pizza.  Dirk watches you consume another two slices on top of the four you had earlier, and then asks the waitress to call an ambulance because “this poor child is obviously going to overdose on your pizza and do you really want that on your consciousness?  A dead kid and an unfinished pizza? Do you?”

The waitress, standing at the edge of table, laughs and drops the cup of soda she’s holding, somehow managing to spill it all over your shirt even though you’re the furthest from her and Roxy, the closest, should have been the one to take a Coke to the chest.

She blushes and apologizes profusely, but you laugh good-naturedly and tell her not to worry about it; every shirt can be improved by adding a cup of cola.

You excuse yourself to the bathroom, trying to wring the soda out of the fabric, but only managing to twist the bottom of your shirt into a stiff, sugary knot.

The waitress, Callie, as her nametag proclaims, meets you outside the door with a wet towel.

“I’m so sorry; really, I don’t know how I dropped that—”

“It’s fine, Callie, I never really like this shirt anyway,” you laugh.  “You saved me the trouble of “accidentally” spilling something on it myself.”

She giggles and stops frantically wiping at the stain across your chest.  She looks up at you with large green eyes and a flirtatious smile.  Wait… the soda was so not an accident!

“I don’t know, it’s a nice shirt, it looks pretty expensive.  I should pay you back.  How about dinner, …?”

“Um.”  Smooth, Egbert.  “John.”

“How about dinner, John?  I’d really like to make it up to you.”

“I like dinner, generally,” you say haltingly.

She smiles again.

“Good.  Give me a call.”  She slips a piece of paper into your hand and walks away with an exaggerated swinging of her hips.

You stare after her blankly.  Jeez, you can hardly even remember the last date you went on.

“Breath, Egbert,” Dirk says, walking up to you with a teasing smirk.

“Yeah, yeah, breathing, whatever,” you dismiss, looking down at the paper in your hand.

Her name and number are written on it in loopy cursive.  When did she even write this?  Where was she hiding it?  Does she just keep them handy in case she needs to spill drinks on unsuspecting guys? 

“I bet I can beat you at ski ball.”

He’s as impassive as ever but you can feel his buoyant mood, infectious enough to make you laugh.

“That’s where you’re wrong, Strider, I’m a ski ball champion.”

“Oh yeah?”  He raises an eyebrow.  “Prove it.”

You happen to be much better at ski ball than he anticipated. You don’t tell him, but your dad used to take you to arcades and train you in ski ball as he was a “ski ball champ” when he was a kid and wanted to “pass on the torch to you, son.”

He crushes you at Galaga, though.

“Damn, Egbert,” he snickers as you die in stage two for the third time in a row.  “You suck.”  He’s leaning against the side of the machine to watch you, arms crossed and a constant smirk on his lips.

“Shut up, this is impossible,” you protest, starting a new game with your last quarter.  “How am I supposed to defend against _thousands_ upon _thousands_ of angry alien dudes?  I don’t even have any back up.  What’s that about?  Where’s the rest of humanity?  They just decide to send one guy?  That’s a shit plan; maybe they deserve to be invaded.”

He snickers again, and you glance at him, wondering what it sounds like when he honestly laughs, open mouthed and unrestrained.

“Yeah, you mock now, but no one’s laughing when the world gets invaded because the government sent _one guy_ to kill all these suckers.”

“Nah, I think you’re just really good at fricking it up.”

“Excuse me?” you giggle, looking at him in disbelief. “Fricking it up?”

“What?  There’s a kid right there,” he gestures to a kid, about eight, playing Pac-Man, “and gee whiz, if I’m not a role model than I don’t know what I am.”

You can’t help but crack up at his serious expression, not sure why it’s so funny, but unable to stop laughing.

“You’re such a dork,” you manage, looking up to see him smiling, with teeth and everything.  He has an amazing smile.

“Alright, move over, this is how you beat the shit out of aliens.”

“So much for the role model,” you snicker, letting him take the controls.

“So you gonna call her?”

“Huh?  Oh, Callie?”  You fiddle with the scrap of paper in your pocket, watching the Galaga screen.  “I don’t know.  Probably not.”

You can feel his eyes on you and his spaceship explodes on the screen.

“You lost.” 

He doesn’t look back to the game.

“Why not?”

You shrug, reaching for the reason, but a prickling sensation on the back of your neck urges you to look out the window.  There’s a woman wrapped in a long gray cloth sitting in the middle of the road.  She stays perfectly still as a car speeds past her and whips her shawl into the air.

“What’s she doing?” you ask.  Dirk looks up in surprise but doesn’t answer.  “Wait, I’ll be right back,” you mutter, rushing to the door without waiting for a reply.

Outside is crisp, clouds in every shade of gray sag over the restaurant.  Another car swerves past her.

“Ma’am?” you call. 

She doesn’t look up so you make your way over to her.  She comes into view, an elderly woman with a sallow, sunken face, her eyes closed and her face tilted to the sky.

"You okay, ma'am?" you ask, reaching for her arm.

Her eyes snap open and she jerks away from your touch, looking at you in alarm.  You back off and hold your hands up to show you won't touch her as she stands shakily but doesn’t move from the road.

"I’m- I’m fine." she mutters without meeting your eyes.  "Who are you?"

"Me?" You quell your surprise at her reaction and decide to humor her. "I’m John," you say with an easy smile. "I’m just trying to help. Are you sure you’re okay?"

"Yes, of course," she answers dryly, grinning to herself. "Why wouldn't I be?" she glances at you once, twice, and then chuckles to herself.

“Okay, well, it’s pretty dangerous to be in the middle of the street like this.  Why don’t we go over to the side?”

You place a hand near the small of her back, not touching but guiding, to shepherd her to the sidewalk.  She allows you to help her forward, backing away from you once you reach the sidewalk.

“I’m okay.  It’s fine now,” she states sharply, staring at the concrete.

"Alright, well... have a good day, ma'am. Sorry to bother you."

You’re not sure you believe her but you don’t know what else to do, so you turn to walk away.

You stop when she cries, "wait!”  She pauses, looking down as if she's forgotten what to say. Maybe she has dementia or something. Should you call someone?

"Have you seen my son?"

"Your son?" you repeat questioningly.  The sudden quiver of emotion softening her voice to an imploring tremble unnerves you more than her abruptness.

"Um, no, I haven't. Do you need help looking for him?"

"No, no, he won't come. You wouldn't be able to find him." She looks up at you, desperation in her eyes. Uncomfortable, you try to back away but her hand shoots out and wraps around your wrist with unexpected strength. 

"Could you? Could you find him? It’d be you, then, if anyone, it'd be you. Yes, you could find him.  Perhaps you’ve found him already?"

Her grip tightens, her eyes locked on yours with manic intensity.

"Find my son. Find my son and then I can leave. I can finally leave this forsaken place."

"Uh," you stutter, trapped in her inexorable gaze, frozen with a calm terror, like the trickling in your gut when you know something is wrong but can't be fixed.

Her nails are digging into you, pressing half-moons into the underside of your wrist, forceful enough to break through your skin.

"I don't know... could you tell me where you saw him last? Or maybe you should talk to the police...?"

She says nothing, but her grip slackens gradually until you can tug your arm away.  You wipe the blood beading on your cuts with your sleeve while eyeing her uneasily.

"No," she whispers, stepping away with a broken expression. "You’ve been marked, it’s you.  You will find each other, yes?  What happens then—” Her sentence cracks and a sob spills out. She presses a hand to her lips and shakes her head.

"It’s been so long since I've seen his face."

You don't know what she's talking about or why, but your body seems to be attached to a hundred strings all tugging you in the opposite direction.  _She’s crazy; she doesn’t know what she’s saying._

"I don't think I can help you, I’m sorry," you offer in an attempt to reason through the disturbed churning in your stomach.  The prickling at your neck crawls down your spine slowly.

"John."

You jump at the sudden hand on your shoulder and find Dirk beside you.

"Who are you talking to?"

"What?"

You look between him and the woman, who smiles sadly.

"The Heir is awake," she murmurs. "And soon, Heir, soon you will find him."

You choke, stumbling backwards.

"You’re- you're dead, what the-"

She puts a finger to her lips before she steps in front of you and places her hands on either side of your face, her fingers resting on your temples. Your surprised noise is lost to a pained yell as her fingers, buzzing with warmth, turn icy and dig into your temples.

"Shh," she whispers, closing her eyes. You fall to your knees as the cold intensifies, slithering into your head, crawling through your mind and dragging frost through your thoughts until all you feel is the bite of the cold.

"He’s so lost, Heir." Her hushed voice is at your ear. "Bring my son back to me."

You squeeze your eyes shut, willing her to leave, for all of this to stop, for ghosts and demons to go back to being nightmares and nothing more.

The pain abates suddenly, the ice releasing you. As you open your eyes she blinks out of sight with a last plea for you to find her son.

Her son, you can picture him now, images rolling through your head like a silent film.  A laughing young man with long, dark hair runs through a field of sprouting wheat.  He pulls a girl along behind him, their hands intertwined.  She appears to be laughing too, her head thrown back, her beautiful face split with a happy smile. The young man falls, dragging the girl on top of him.  She shakes with mute laughter and places a kiss on the tip of his nose and the young man smiles radiantly.  He rolls her beneath him and catches her mouth in a slow kiss, the picturesque sunset behind them darkening their figures to silhouettes.  Your view shifts upward abruptly to watch as the sky turns a deep, stormy violet.  A bright arc of lighting illuminates the couple and the field, the two now older and the earth now barren. The woman lies still in the man’s arms, her graceful neck bent unnaturally and her head lolling against the dirt.  The man bellows his agony to the violent sky, his mouth wide in a soundless scream, the wind whipping his hair over his face, cast in pallor.  The scene changes to a small bedroom, bare but for a plain cot.  The man is lying on it, his still, emaciated form nearly unrecognizable.  Unintentionally, you move closer until you are looking down on his face.  His concave cheeks, closed sunken eyes, and dull, stringy hair scream of desperation, but his most prominent feature is his mouth, or, the jagged stitches drawn through his lips, swollen with scar tissue and infection.  A drop of water falls on his chest and you realize that it has not moved since you’ve been watching him.  Gaunt, withered hands reach from below you line of vision to draw a white sheet over his terrible face and you fall forward, your mind slipping from your control as you fall through the white sheet and the angry sky and the dead field. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This wasn't supposed to take so long to get out, but apparently I can't keep to a schedule to save my life. Oops.

_It feels like you’re on a rollercoaster.  The wind whipping your hair back into dark tangles, the weightlessness, the rush of exhilaration twisting upwards from your stomach to your head, the wide grin stretching your lips as laughter bubbles from your mouth; it’s the most exciting experience you can imagine.  The earth is a blur beneath your feet, a blend of deep black and rich blue.  The sky above you is dark as well, a wall of thick gray clouds bunched along the horizon, but the air is cool and damp and smells like rain.  It reminds you of Seattle, of home.  You think briefly of your father; what if he was afraid, what if you could have stopped it, what if you have his blood on your hands, but you shove it all away quickly.  The sky is calling.  You can’t dwell in the past when the wind is threading through your fingers and swirling around your torso with a whispering touch, lifting you higher and higher, high enough to see across the landscape.  To see the dark rainbows painted on the oil rivers and the spots of turquoise glowing in the luminescent hills and the low, thatched roofs of salamander villages and far off in the distance, your own house, a thin white pole gouging a hole in the clouds._

_You slow, pulling the wind to you with a gesture and floating higher.  Your view is suddenly obscured by lines of blocky gray text scrawling across your vision.  Karkat must want something.  He’s ranting, as per usual, his mix of exaggerated expletives and goofy insults making you giggle._

_You should answer him.  An impatient Karkat isn’t a fun Karkat to deal with.  You should—wait, Karkat?_

_Karkat… he’s with Jade.  Aren’t they sharing a house or something?  But Jade is on LOFAF, with Dave, why would Karkat be there?  How’d he even enter your session?  That’s supposed to be impossible because of all the weird Sburb pseudo-science crap._

_Ugh, your head is staring to hurt.  You discard the train wreck of a thought and focus on the task at hand: Operation Find Casey a Friend.  You can’t have your precious daughter getting lonely._

_Hold up, your daughter?  You don’t have a daughter.  Jeez, you sure hope you don’t have a daughter.  How would you take care of a kid on top of college and whacko spirit encounters?_

_You falter, dropping several feet unexpectedly.  College?  What college?  You’re thirteen._

_Bluh!   Why is everything so confusing today?!_

_Thankfully, a string of red letters crawls into your eyesight and distracts you from your muddled thoughts.  Dave’s rambling about something… a genius rap strategy, it seems.  Oh boy.  If you’d have known you were going to witness some sicknasty rhymes you would have worn your other shirt.  The one that says “why am I friends with this idiot.”_

_You indulge him anyway.  His raps are usually pretty funny and you have to admit the kid has some skills.  Not that you’d ever share that particular opinion.  His ego is large enough as is._

_You surf the air currents idly as you watch Dave’s rap play out, scanning the ground with a lazy eye in case a salamander suited to be Casey’s friend appears.  Two red paragraphs and an unsatisfactory salamander later, you hear something, a soft and indistinct murmur carried on the breeze._

_“John?”_

_You pause in the air, confused._

_“John?”_

_The skin on your neck prickles and you look up slowly, toward the faint sound of your name, a whisper carried on the growing howl of the wind.  You know that voice.  Gradually the intervals between each repetition decrease and the voice rises._

_“John! John! John!”_

_The sky darkens as it gets louder, angrier, the wind rebelling against your control and buffeting you from side to side.  You can’t keep balanced._

_“John! John! John JohnJohnJOHN.”_

The final screech rips you from your dream with violent force.  Jane.  It’s Jane’s voice.

Light seeps through your eyelids, which seem to be superglued together.  Her voice is clearer now, but unfortunately, also considerably more shrill.  You love your sister, but every time she’s upset her voice reaches registers only dogs can hear.

Fingers dig into your shoulders as her grating shouts add a pounding headache to the laundry list of other aches slowly making themselves known.

“Jane, right?  Well, Jane, I’m not a doctor but that’s probably not helping—” Dirk’s voice is cut off by another hypersonic squeak from Jane.

“What did you do to him?!”  Despite your eyes being cemented together you can picture her expression perfectly: just like Hulk Hogan in the ring.  “Look here, buster, you might be really tall and kind of intimidating and have strange sunglasses, but I will not hesitate to kick your ass if you don’t tell me what happened to my little brother right—”

“Jane,” you try to say.  It comes out as a deep croak.  You pry your eyes open and try again.  “Jane.  Why are you trying to dislocate my arm?”

“John!”  She collapses against your chest with a shuddering sob, burying her face in your other shoulder.  “I was so worried!”

With considerable difficulty you blink the stickiness from your eyes, glancing up to see Dirk exhale heavily.  You notice the shadow of a beard on his jaw, which he scrubs a hand over absentmindedly.

“You okay, kid?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”  You crane your neck to look at your sister, who is still sprawled across you and sniffling mutedly.  “Um, what’s happening?”

“Your sister decided to visit.”

“I see,” you say.  You don’t see.  “Not that that it’s not great to see you, Jane, but why are you here?”

She pulls away to glare at you, an uncharacteristic amount of anger burning in her watery blue eyes.

“Three days, John.  Three days.  Three days of you not answering calls or texts or emails or _anything._   What was I supposed to think?  Finally one of your “friends” answered your phone but she was absolutely no help.  She just said you were _“indisposed”_.  Indisposed, John!  Obviously, I had to come right away!  And rightly so!  Look at you!  Unconscious and unresponsive for _days_ and these… these… _people_ didn’t even call a doctor!  I’ve tried to be patient and understanding, but this has gone on long enough!  You’re telling me exactly what happened and then you’re going to the hospital and then I’m taking you home.  And I swear to god, Jonathan Egbert, if you don’t do exactly as I say…I’ll… I’ll call Dad.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!”  You scramble to a sitting position with your hands raised in the universal “chill the fuck out” gesture.  “Who said anything about calling Dad?” 

“I did!  Just now!” she exclaims, Hulk Hogan expression still strong.

“We really don’t need to involve Dad, Janey, ‘cause it’s all good!  I’m good, Shades Dude is good, you’re good, everything’s good.  No Dad necessary.”  

She doesn’t seem accepting of the overwhelming Dad-negating goodness in the room.

“John, just tell me why I had to drive for an hour to a strange house full of suspicious characters and find you lying unconscious on a couch.”

“Uhh…”

“Do my ears deceive me?  Janey-loo, could that be you?”

Roxy twirls into the room, beaming radiantly at Jane. 

“Roxy?”  Jane stands, blatant confusion wrinkling her brow.

“Oh, and our triumphant hero awake at last!  Welcome back to the world, John.”

“Um, thanks?”

“And Jane!  It’s been so long!  But it’s great you’re here, just in time for John’s celebration!”

Jane looks torn between giving her a hug and strangling her, or maybe just doing both.  “I don’t under—”

“Shush, shush, it’s story time.

“To start, did you know your perf little brother has mad karate skills?  I didn’t.  Where have you been hiding those, Johnny?  Anyway, it doesn’t matter, here, Janey, sit.  As I was saying, John’s like a major badass, he totally saved our lives the other day.  We were down at Pike’s Place and these thugs came up and tried to mug us with like, knives ‘n shit.  It was horrible, but John stepped in and pounded their thug asses into the ground, he really gave it to them, you should’ve seen it, wow, it was amazing. 

“Anyway, he was being a gentleman and beating up these guys for me, when this other guy came up behind him with this shiv and attacked him like the shit sportsman he was.  Obviously, that’s where I came in and everything turned out fine, but the assholes had already gotten John.  It was bad, he was bleeding n’ shit and I was ready to record like, final words or whatever.  The last thing he said was ‘don’t involve the fuzz’.  It was beautiful.  Very street.  So anyway, I picked him up and got him home, where Dirk here, who’s gonna be a doctor man, patched him up all nice ‘n pretty.  We wanted to abide by John’s dying wish, since he saved my life ‘n all, but hey, he didn’t actually die, so now everything’s good and we can party!”

You’re not sure if ‘stunned silence’ would describe the atmosphere after Roxy’s rushed monologue.  Maybe on Jane’s part.  You would have to go with ‘baffled’ for yourself and ‘vastly exasperated’ for Dirk.

“John knows karate?” Jane asks, sitting on the couch across from you with a look of deep consternation.

“Yeah,” you reply quickly, before Roxy could take everything even more over the top.  Hastily, you search your mind for a believable explanation.  “I’ve been practicing, to uh, defend myself from this karate gang at school.  They like to rough me up and one day I stumbled into a karate master who was working at this car shop and he—Mmph!”

Speaking is suddenly made difficult by Dirk’s hand clapped over your mouth.

“It’s not good for you to be talking so much, Karate Kid.  Doctor’s orders.”

“But I thought you said you weren’t a doctor?” interrupts Jane, narrowing her eyes skeptically.

“Not a doctor _yet_ , is of course what I meant to say.  But please, feel free to call me Dr. Dirk.”

“Um… I don’t think so.”

“Suit yourself.  And in case you’re wondering, I’ve diagnosed John with a shiv wound and it’s recommended he stay here a few more days.”

You fight the urge to laugh at Dirk’s attempt at medical professionalism.

“Okay… but I still think he should see a real doctor.”

Roxy leans over the back of Jane’s couch, poised behind her shoulder.

“But Janey, they’ll notify the police and John really doesn’t want that, do you, John?”

“Uh, yeah, I really don’t want…” —Roxy gives you an encouraging wink— “… the fuzz to get involved.”

“Then I’m staying with you.  Here.”

Uh oh.

“Wait, no, I really don’t think that’s a good idea—”

“If I’m not here, you’re not here, John.  I need to keep you safe.”

You glance at Dirk, but he only shrugs.  Useless.

“Okay.  We have an extra room,” he tells her.

“What?  No—”

“This’ll be so much fun,” enthuses Roxy, swinging around the couch to grab Jane’s hands and pull her up.  “C’mon, say goodbye to the boys, we’re gonna go find Rose.”

“Rose is here too…?” Jane asks faintly as Roxy leads her away.  They ascend the stairs, leaving just you and Dirk.

“What was that about?” 

“Yeah, how the hell does she know Roxy?”

“No, I mean what are you thinking?  She can’t stay _here_!”

“Why not?”

“What if something happens to her?  Or if she finds out, or sees something, or—”

“John, relax.  This place is safe, remember?”

You chew at the inside of your cheek worriedly.

“Rose got possessed here,” you point out.

“Yeah, but she’s Rose.  Special conditions.”  You don’t answer, unconvinced.  “Do you trust me?”

You glance up in surprise.

“Of course I do.”

He grins softly and something in your gut tightens.

“I’ll keep her safe.”

“Promise?”

His grin widens into a smile.

“Promise.”

“Okay.”  Satisfied with his answer, you relax into the cushions.  “So what really happened?”

He flops onto the opposite couch, stretching leisurely until his back pops.

“You tell me.”

You furrow your brow in an effort to recall the event.  “The last thing I remember is that dead lady giving me a really weird vision and then I passed out, or I guess I did.”

“Vision?”

“Yeah, but I don’t understand why she showed it to me.  She wanted me to find her son, but apparently he’s dead now.  How am I supposed to return a ghost to another ghost?”

He shrugs.  “No one ever said spirits are reasonable.  What’d you see?”

“There were these two people, man and woman, and then the woman died and the man was really angry about it, but I don’t know how she died or what happened after that.  The only other thing I saw was the man’s corpse.  His mouth was sewed shut, if that means something.”

He reacts instantly, stiffening minutely before relaxing a second later.  Other than that he remains still and expressionless, casual.  You doubt his minor display of tension implies severe danger, but it’s enough to stir your curiosity.

“Hey, John,” he asks after a moment of thought.  “The spirit that possessed you, did you see it?”

“Yeah,” you answer, somewhat chary.

“What’d it look like?”

“Its face was painted white, and it had really long black hair and a stitched mouth.”

He nods slowly.  “Huh.”

“Why?”

“Just curious.” 

You want to push him further but he speaks before you can form a question.

“So when’d you want to get started on all that ghost fighting bullshit you’re so excited about?”

You perk up immediately.

“Really?  Are we starting?  Hell yes!  Can we start now?”

“Don’t make me regret this, kid.”

“I’m not a kid.  You were six when I was born; don’t act all old and wise.”

“I am old and wise.”

“Yeah, whatever you say, grandpa.  What are we starting with?”

“Would you stop bouncing like a fucking four year old?  I didn’t even say we were going to do anything.”

“But we are, right?”

He laughs, dragging a hand through his hair.

“Yeah, how about tonight.”

A girlish shriek, followed by muffled expletives and heavy thumping cuts off your eager assent.  Dirk sighs. 

“C’mon, we should intervene before Rose commits sororicide.”

*****

 “You’re not focusing.”

“Oh, really?” you growl, irritation saturating your tone.  “Please, oh wise sensei, teach me the secret of your world-renowned focusing abilities.”

“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, John, leave that to me.  Just concentrate.”

“Like it’s that simple,” you snort, rising to your feet and brushing off the leaves and dirt that cling to your jeans.  After an hour of fruitless attempts at “focusing” and “concentrating” and ten other synonyms, you’re twitchy and more than a little frustrated.  “How is me staring at the same spot of ground _really_ hard supposed to summon something?  I’m lucky if I even managed to make the dirt self-conscious.”

Dirk leans back on his elbows, watching impassively as you dig your shoe into a tuft of grass.   His black shirt and jeans are lost in the darkness of the cemetery; the dim moonlight leeches the gold from his hair and his ridiculous shades—it’s almost midnight for god’s sake— glint like the sun striking water.  Overall he looks entirely too relaxed among the gravestones. 

“Alright, then leave.  No one’s forcing you to stay and waste your night pointlessly.”

“No, that’s not—it’s not that I think it’s pointless— ugh!  I don’t know!  I don’t get why I can’t do this!  And I swear to god if you say it’s because I’m not focusing I might actually hit you.”

He smirks and nods to the spot you previously occupied.

“So try again.”

Grumbling, you comply, fixing your clumsily spray-painted pentagram with a scowl.  Nothing happens.  You scowl harder.  To your complete surprise, nothing happens.

“Okay, maybe this _is_ pointless,” you groan, ruffling your hair with both hands.

He sighs quietly but doesn’t seem disappointed.  Shouldn’t he be annoyed with you?  You’re the one who’s been pushing him to teach you and now that you’re here you can’t even draw a proper pentagram, much less summon a spirit.  Jeez, that’s embarrassing.  You tear at the damp grass to avoid looking at him.

“What do you think this guy was like?”

Surprised, you look up.  He’s surveying the headstone in front of you.  It’s one of the fancy deals, white marble topped with a heavy cross, a morbidly intricate depiction of crucified Christ draped across it.  A thick layer of grime coats the stone and obscures the engraved name.  All you can make out is “—ott Willi—, —ving fa—, 1927-20—”.  Long dead flowers lay rotting at the base, the only evidence of visiting mourners. 

“He was probably a jackass,” Dirk answers himself.  “Some loaded old dude who never came to little Cindy’s soccer practices and only shelled out a ten for Junior’s birthday, and held big-ass Christmas parties at his big-ass mansion and invited all the other flush fossils for a wild night of strip bingo and Adderall.  He probably went to church Sunday and forgot all about god the rest of the week and donated just enough to have a good rap with the big guy upstairs and then blew the rest of it on yachts and private jets and limos with chauffeurs he called Jeeves even though they had names like Jim or Larry.  Most likely no one cried at his funeral and his kids could hardly sit still through the ceremony, they were so fucking excited to finally inherit their old man’s money, but the hoary bastard went on and willed it all to his precious darling cat, coincidentally also named Jeeves.”   

You wrinkle your nose.  “And you want me to summon this guy?  The guy who names his poor cat ‘Jeeves’?”

“The point is you can summon anyone, as long as you have a picture to work with.  Maybe this dude was nothing like that, but imagining a real, solid person with a past and a family and a personality is the only way you’re going to be able to call anything.”

You look at him blankly.  “Then what the hell have I been doing out here for the past hour?”     

“I thought it might come naturally to you.  Roxy summoned her dead cat on the first try.”

“Of course she did,” you mutter.  “Unfortunately, I don’t have any dead pets to return from the afterlife.”

“There isn’t anyone you would bring back if you could?”

The question catches you off guard.  ‘Yes’ seems to be the obvious answer, yet…  You’ve lost people, but seeing them again—it’s something you’ve never allowed yourself to imagine. 

Would you bring back your mother?  The thought of seeing her face feels like a punch to the gut.  All the pain and guilt crashes over you with fierce suddenness, a smothering wave that constricts your chest.  For a terrifying moment you can’t breathe, but then it releases you and you suck in the night air.

You can’t see her.

Dirk watches your internal struggle with a closed expression and you stare back, studying his face, the sharp angle of his jaw, the long shadows falling under his cheekbones, every aspect curiously grayscale. He looks how you would imagine ghosts to be: cold and unearthly.

But real ghosts are warm and solid and all too tangible; nothing like the remote figure in front of you.

“Yeah, I guess so.  But you can’t actually bring them back, can you?”

“No.”  He considers you before speaking again.  “Who?” 

You hesitate before replying, “Dave.”

You expect it when he flinches. 

“C’mon we’ve been out here long enough, you can come back tomorrow,” he says, pushing to his feet, just as you had known he would.

He turns, not waiting for you as he starts toward the gate.  You scramble after him in time to catch his tensed shoulder.

“Wait, why are you so afraid of him?”

“Why are you afraid of your mother?” he counters without pausing to face you.

Wincing, you drop your hand as if the contact burned and gape at the back of his receding head.  You’ve mentioned your mother to him maybe twice, how dare he presume you’re afraid?  You mean, you are, but that’s not the point.    

“I’m not afraid,” you snap reflexively. 

He turns in response to your defensive tone, his eyebrows lifted doubtfully.

“Yeah, you’re not scared,” he scoffs.  “Well neither am I.”

You feel his irritation spark, a warm simmer beneath his cool mask.  It only feeds your own frustration.

“But you have a chance.  You can see him, talk to him!  He’s still here!”

You’re too heated to consider that this is very, very dangerous territory you’re stepping into, especially since you recently re-killed his brother, which consequently means your entire argument is based on a bluff. 

He laughs, a cold, humorless sound.

“You have the exact same opportunity, John.  Don’t stand there and lecture me as if you’re not a hypocrite.”

“You don’t know what happened with my mom.”

“And you think you know what happened with Dave?”

“I know how Dave feels about whatever it is that happened.  Isn’t that what actually matters?  He still loves—”

“Drop it, John.”

His voice is dangerously low, but you ignore it, ignore the twinge in your gut that tells you to stop, ignore the anger you can inexplicably feel radiating from his body, only a foot from yours.

“Why won’t you listen?  Dave wanted me to—”

“I don’t care what Dave wanted.”

“But—”

“What part of ‘drop it’ don’t you fucking understand?”

“You’re scared, so you turn your back on him?  Well guess what, he’s scared too.  Just because he’s dead doesn’t mean he suddenly deserves a shit brother.”

“He always had a shit brother; this is nothing new.”

 “He’s trapped!  He’s trapped on the other side and he’s scared he’s going to forget himself and disappear.  You could help him; you keep him grounded.”

“He’s dead, John.  That’s what happens.”

“Are you serious?  Are you really so fucking cold that you honestly don’t care about him anymore?” 

His jaw clenches tightly and his hands shove you roughly backwards until you feel the top edge of a gravestone digging into the base of your spine.

“Shut up.”

“You didn’t save him.”

“Shut up!”

“You didn’t save him the first time so now you won’t even try.  That’s bullshit.”

You can feel his hand, still on your chest, start to tremor before he pushes you again, not as hard as the first but enough to make you stumble.  Your foot catches the slick base of the grave and you lose your balance, slipping down the smooth stone face of the headstone to land hard on your ass at the bottom of it.  Dirk stares down at you; face unreadable despite the rawness of his voice.

“We’re done here.”

He flashsteps away without another word, leaving you alone with the sighing breeze in the pines, the damp chill of the earth seeping through your jeans, and the sick, hollow hole yawning in your stomach.

“He runs away, how unexpected,” you mutter, leaning your head against the marble behind you to stare up at the sky.  As a perfect end to your perfect night, it starts to rain. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love hearing feedback from you guys, cause hell if I know what I'm doing with this thing. Really, anything and everything you have to say is helpful and I'm also on [tumblr](http://intern-rob.tumblr.com/), if for some reason that is a thing you would like to know.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> amazingly, it hasn't been a month and here is a new chapter. although i'm not sure if that's good or bad. anyway, hope you like it (and happy america day, if you're into that sort of thing)

You sit until you’re shivering and your hair is dripping in your eyes before finally dragging yourself to your feet.  Beneath the downpour your inexpert pentagram maintains its shape stubbornly, the white lines stark against the dark earth. 

It’s too bad you couldn’t have just summoned something.  Maybe that would have stopped you from being an idiot and yelling at Dirk.  Again.  Even though everything you said was true, he doesn’t deserve to have it thrown his face.  And besides, he’s right: you are a hypocrite.  Every word is what you’ve been too cowardly to admit to yourself. 

You’re terrified at the possibility, even the thought, of seeing your mother again.  But what if she’s stranded on the other side, slowly losing the memories of her life?  Dad’s face, Jane’s laugh, your smile, all decaying like flowers at the foot of a grave.  What if she’s already gone?

Your knees buckle at the edge of the white circle.  It hurts.  You don’t want to think about it, about her. 

Pressing your hands into the muddy pentagram, you think about Dave instead.  You picture his stupid shades, and his uneven grin, and all the ridiculous traits you’ve come to associate with him.  His shitty sense of humor and unending supply of sarcasm, the senseless metaphors he thinks are clever and the way he always tries to hide what he’s feeling but never quite succeeds.

Your eyes fall shut in concentration and a moment later, your efforts are rewarded with a flat voice asking “you rang?”

“Dave!” you cry, opening your eyes to see your friend standing before you.  He’s as real as ever, the rain instantly plastering his hair to his forehead.

“It’s been a while, Egbert.”

“Oh god, Dave, I’m so sorry.  Before, if I hadn’t made you stay so long—are you okay?  Wait—what the—you’re bleeding!”

His hand is pressed to his side, futilely trying to stop dark rivulets of blood that seep through his fingers and leave long stains down his shirt.  You move to help him—there has to be something you can do—but as soon as you lose contact with the painted lines of the pentagram he disappears. 

“Wait!”

You shove your hands back into the mud, willing him to return.  He does, slightly more hunched and the red bloom now covering most of his chest.

“Dave, I don’t—what’s going on?”

“It’s cool, John, just don’t let go again, okay?  I can’t stay here if you’re not holding me.”

More and more blood flows through his fingers until his hand falls away limply, every inch of his skin deathly white as a thin trickle leaks from his mouth.  The streaks run down his clothes, catching in the raindrops and dying the muddy puddles at his feet.  

“Dave…”

“Summoning appeals to the corporeal form of the deceased, hence the mess.”  He gestures to the tracks of gore that flow from the horrific wound across his side.

“How you saw me back at the house was the representation of my consciousness.  Basically, when I’m purposely projecting myself somewhere, I can look how I want as long as I have the strength to maintain it.  But since I don’t have much of a say in being here, I don’t control my form.   This is just default: the echo of my body as it last was.  Now shut up, I’m not gonna be staying long.

“First off, quit with the blaming yourself bullshit.  It wasn’t your fault; you don’t have to be the martyr every single fucking time.  I knew I couldn’t last but I stayed anyway, end of story. Second, I don’t actually have second so I guess you can talk now or whatever.”

Your eyes haven’t moved from the clean gash starting between his lower ribs and ripped upward across his torso to end just below his solar plexus. 

“What—I don’t understand… Is this how the demon killed you?”

“This is how Dirk killed the demon.”

You can’t look away from the wound, the thick pour of red.  It reminds you of your fourth grade science class, when you dropped a thermometer and watched the mercury spill from the shattered glass, the bright beads scattering across the tile.  It’s just like you remember, hundreds of beads of mercury spilling from his shattered side.

“He killed you.  Dirk killed you.  I don’t—”

You finally look up at his face, eyes wide in numb disbelief. 

“He… he didn’t mean to.  It was an accident.”

His voice is small, young.  Increasing dizziness makes him waver in front of you.

“I’m so stupid.  I can’t believe I—”

You shake your head and the sickness in your stomach intensifies.  Dave raises a shaky hand to brush his dripping hair from his eyes, leaving a red smear across his forehead.  He hunches in on himself and you see him grit his teeth. 

Horrified, you realize you tried to make Dirk see this, to relive all the gruesome details of Dave’s death, to watch him die again.

“This is hurting you, isn’t it?”

“Nah, I’m already dead, what else can—agh!”

The pained cry in the middle of his reassurance contravenes any reassuring it may have done.

“What can I do?”

He crumples, falling heavily into the mud.  The ground around him is dark, murky crimson.  You feel like crying, watching your friend suffer, confused and helpless yet again.

“There’s nothing, really.  Most people don’t die so messy; they’re easier to talk to.  So what’s up?  How’ve you been?”   

“When I let you go, will you be okay?  Will you go back there?  To the other side?”

“Yeah, but it’s cool, dude, don’t worry about it.  Why’d you call me?”

“I was trying to summon something.  You were the first that came to mind.”

“The first dead dude on your mind.  I’m honored.”

“You’re not starting to forget?”

“Elephants have nothing on me.”

You want to say more but your eyesight is starting to take on a white tint, objects fuzzy and unsteady.  You try to blink it away but everything only gets whiter and more unfocused.

“John, hey, John, it’s time to let me go, man; I’m sapping up all your energy.  You’re gonna pass out.”

His voice sounds distant, like he’s speaking at the far end of a tunnel.

“No, you don’t deserve being trapped on the other side… I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, please, Dave, just stay… I—”

You can’t speak anymore; you’re too lost in roaring in your ears and the blur of your vision as the dim colors of your surroundings swirl together in nauseating eddies.

“I’m good, John.  Let go.”

No, you can’t.  He’ll be lost. 

The harsh whiteness deteriorates into black.

You let him go.    

*****

“Is he dead?”

“I don’t know.”

“Shouldn’t we know if he’s dead?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well how do we find out if he’s dead?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you know anything?”

“I think he’s opening his eyes.  He’s probably not dead.”

Blinking awake, two grimy kids swim into view, leaning over you with twin expressions of bland curiosity.

“Are you dead?” asks the smaller one, a little girl with loose blonde hair straggled around her face in dirty knots.

“Um, I don’t think so?”

You sit up and the children continue to peer at you unblinkingly.

“Then what are you doing here if you’re not dead?” asks the other, a slightly taller girl with long blonde braids.  Both she and her—sister? they look similar enough—wear ratty nightgowns trimmed with limp lace ruffles.

“I just sort of, uh, fell asleep.”

You look around uncomfortably.  It’s still dark, although the rain has abated to a gentle drizzle.  The blood has vanished, as well at the pentagram.

“What’d you wanna sleep in a cemetery for?”

“Well, it wasn’t really a choice.  Uh, so, do either of you know what time it is?”

They glance at each other before turning back to you and shrugging simultaneously.

“That’s… not very helpful.”

They nod, still in sync. 

“What are you guys even doing out here?  Where are your parents?”

“Over there,” answers the smaller girl, pointing to a tall headstone.

“Ah.”

 “Do you know anyone who’s dead?”

‘Uncomfortable’ is beginning to become an understatement.

“Um, I don’t think I’m going to answer that.  Shouldn’t you be at home?”

“Not really.”

They stare at you owlishly, waiting for a reply.

“Look, I’m sure we all agree _The Shining_ is a cool movie, but—”

“Julia!  Henrietta!  What are you two doing bothering this poor young man?” demands a stern voice.

You start as a grey, tired looking woman appears beside you.  Unperturbed, the girls shift their round eyes to her.

“Go on, shoo,” she commands with a sweeping gesture.

They share a fleeting look and then flicker twice before disappearing entirely.  You suddenly feel much colder in your soggy clothes.

“Ah.” 

“Sorry about them,” says the woman, turning to you with a warm, if weary smile.  “They don’t see real living people very often.”

A strong urge to run away screaming possesses you, but that would probably be construed as rude, even to the dead.

“Right, not many living people interactions, that makes sense, since you’re dead and not… alive.”

Her smile wanes.

“So.”  You swing your arms at your side, the picture of nonchalance.  “Ghosts, huh?  In a graveyard.”  She stares at you.  “Very cool.”

She doesn’t respond.  Not that you blame her.

“You, uh… you like it here?”

No answer.

“Yeah… Anyway, I should be going.”

“Right then.  I’ll just be… right.”

You turn to the gate hastily but jump when you see what’s beyond it.  The street, crowded with people.  Dozens of dead bodies drifting aimlessly, all with vacant glass gazes fixed on nothing in particular.  You watch as one vanishes only to be replaced by another.  As you observe, more flicker out, either to be supplanted or to reappear a few feet on, continuing as if nothing happened.

“Careful, Heir.”  The woman speaks softly, close to your ear, causing a wave of goose bumps to wash over your skin.  “He is omnipotent; He cannot be evaded in this world, for here the dead overrun the living.”

You take that as your cue to get the fuck out of there.

But once you’re through the gate things get even weirder, however that’s possible.  The spirits, gliding around with identical expressions of blank detachment, all turn to you when you step into the street, their faces coming alive.  Some leer, some gawk, others have narrowed, skeptical gazes.  Some even have looks of stunned awe.  Unsuccessfully, you try to hide how disturbed you are.  Why are all these ghosts here?  Where did they come from?  Why are they here _now_?  What are they doing?  Why the fuck are they _here_ , where you also happen to be _?_   Reluctant but unsure of what else there is to do, you start forward, brushing through them with a few ‘excuse me’s and ‘pardon me’s.  You can hear the uneasy susurration among them following you as you pass.

“Is it him?”

“It is.”

“He’s not what I expected.”

“Are you sure that’s the right one?  All these humans look alike, you know.”

“That’s definitely the one.”

“Look at his mark.”

“So bright.”

“Can we touch it?”

“Can we take it?”

“We mustn’t; He’ll be angry.”

“How will He know?”

“He always knows.”

“It’s so beautiful.”

“Just one touch, then.”

“No!”

A spirit lunges toward you, an unfortunately solid man with grubby hands and greedy eyes.  But the watching spirit’s alarmed cry allows just enough warning for you to narrowly dodge the assault.  The man crashes into the ground, the surrounding ghosts quieting with eerie synchronization before cacophonous shouting breaks out, all of them yelling at once.

“Stop!”

“Don’t!”

“He’ll make you pay!”

The bystanding ghosts wail at the offender but don’t interfere, instead crowding around in tight circle as the man rises to his feet, looking at you with madness glinting in his eyes.

“Shhh, Heir, don’t fight, I just want a little touch, just one, eh?  Just one little touch for me, then I’m off,” he coos, creeping toward you slowly as if approaching a frightened animal.  You try to back away but run into the ghosts clustered behind you, their tingling hands prodding at you with soft pats.

He dives for you and you try to skirt his reaching hands, but there’s nowhere to go.  As he hits you the solid mass of spirits behind you vanishes and you slam against the pavement, stars bursting behind your eyes and bitter iron flooding your mouth as your head cracks against the asphalt, your teeth stabbing through your lower lip.

Shaking with adrenaline you struggle under him, twisting violently, trying to buck him off, all in vain.  He’s heavy, much too heavy to budge, and pushing down on you with crushing force.  You let out a shout as weighty panic trickles into your stomach like a wash of ice, but your voice dies off quickly, turning into a choked gurgle as hot blood from your torn lip drips down your throat.

“It’s so bright,” the man says.  His small eyes are glued to the spot over your heart with fervor and reverence, like a religious extremist manic in his belief.  “Why just a touch when I might just as well take it all?”

He laughs feverishly, his meaty hand descending toward your chest as you struggle and gag on the tang of rust sliding down your throat.

He touches you with the usual electrical warmth of the dead, but as he continues to push down his touch grows hotter, heavier, a burning weight crushing your sternum, your lungs, sending waves of agonizing heat through your entire body.  You scream and push at him uselessly, the ghosts murmur louder but you can no longer distinguish their words. His hand is scorching your skin, you can feel flesh blistering, sizzling, screaming.  You can’t get enough air and what little you manage to inhale only seems to encourage the flames licking at your heart.

It feels like his hand is actually sinking _into_ your chest, through bone and muscle, slowly burning a hole to your heart until the blazing heat of his fingers wraps around it, squeezes tightly.  As the intolerable pain climbs, darkness encroaches on your vision, a threatening blackness that you beg for but mercilessly leaves you conscious.  You’re going to die.  You’re going to die here.

In a last burst of feral desperation, you push against the spirit’s overwhelming heaviness, channeling all of your fear and pain and anger into the force behind your hands, drowning in the sound of your own scream.  You feel wetness on your face, although you can’t tell if it’s tears or rain, and you shove harder, harder.  The spirit’s yell of surprise rises to a pained shriek before finally, after an eternity of exertion, the pressure starts to slowly lift and the heat to gradually recede.  You gasp in a searing breathe as the edges of your sight grow murkier.

You fight against unconsciousness.  Just a little more strength and you could be saved.  The pressure decreases but the screaming only grows louder _.  Fucking hell_ , you think, _it’s so loud, why won’t you just shut up already?_ Until you realize it’s not your noise, but the spirit’s.  He’s flailing above you, desperately trying to get away from your hand, which happens to be stuck through his chest.

You panic.  Still on your back, you try to scramble away on your elbows, but not even your rushing adrenaline can cover the agony in your chest long enough for you to do more than scoot minutely before landing on your back again.  The demon wails, your hand still inside him, your breath coming faster and faster with each of his tortured cries.

Unthinkingly, you ball your fist and fling your arm out in a frantic attempt to throw him off, get him away, anywhere that’s not attached to your fucking hand.  You gasp in shock when half of his form follows your gesture, his torso tearing from the rest of his body and black tendrils pouring from the clefts. His body unravels into dark coils that swirl through the air chaotically before braiding together into a thick black rope that promptly engulfs your fist, winding around your bicep until coming to rest across your shoulders like you’re a flapper and it’s a feather boa.  But you’re not Zelda Fitzgerald and this isn’t a jazzy speakeasy.

You yelp, blind panic managing to push you to your feet, and try to get it off you but it only twists around you more securely.  It feels like the gentle touch of steam on your skin, warm vapor curling against the back of your neck.    

“Holy shit, what the—get off!  Fucking Christ, why the hell—”   

It neither responds to your protests nor changes its behavior, just continues as it is: a black helix wrapped around your right arm and draped across your shoulders like a pet snake.

The spirits are screaming again, fearfully or wrathfully, you’re not quite sure, but it doesn’t really make a difference when they start to claw and rip and tear at you with vengeful hands.  The circle tightens around you as they attack from all sides, berating you with unintelligible shouts, hands jumping forth to grab at your clothes and hair, feet pounding into you shins and knees until you crumple.  You try to shield your head with your arms as they continue to kick you, landing vicious blows on your head and chest and back until you feel like a steak that has been excessively tenderized, to the point where it’s not so much a steak as a mound of meaty mush. 

Again and again you try to scream for help but your voice is either lost in their din or dies in the air; you can’t tell.  Your senses fade as you curl on your side, the noise becoming a dull roar, the pain only distantly registering as you shrink into yourself further, deeper, until you don’t think at all.  There’s only a heavy sleepiness pulling you gently into darkness. 

You want that.  You want the darkness to take everything away.  And as you allow the dull numbness to lead you down, you see Rose step out of the darkness smiling her small, private smile, the one that declares her victorious despite the demons plaguing her.  She nods to you, her lilac eyes flashing before she turns away.

Then your mother follows, wearing the face she wore the day before she died, the last time you saw her.  Bright eyes staring straight ahead and a lucid smile gracing her pale lips.  She stays for a long time, looking both at you and beyond you as you stare at her achingly.  Finally, her face tips toward you, her eyes focus, and she wiggles her fingers in a wave.  Her face is no longer pale.  It’s flooded with color, healthy, glowing.  Her smile is for you.  It looks like she’s laughing when she waves again and then turns and walks into the void without a backward glance.

And suddenly you’re struggling to your feet, pushing up against the hard rain of limbs.  The demon around you slips from your shoulder as you rise, gritting your teeth, stubbornly ignoring the agony tearing through your body like a wave of fire.  With a slight gesture, the demon uncoils and whips forth, slicing through one of the spirits in front of you.  The spirit screams as the two halves of its body dissolve into black fibers.  You spin and lash at another, and then another, a slash across the torso, a swipe through the neck, they both disappear in wails and darkness.  But more take their place, hands tearing at your clothes, nails dragging across your skin.

A ghost grabs the back of your neck, spinning you and bringing your head down into a solid connection with its lifted knee.  You stagger, the demon rope in your hand abruptly absent.  The spirit lunges with a wild cry and you put your hand up, catching his arm as he falls over you and when you pull hard he shrieks and black leaks from his shoulder, crawls from his eyes and mouth until he’s only a chain of smoke at your fingers.  You gesture again and it shoots forward, gouging a hole through the chests of two spirits charging toward you.

The more you resist them the more agitated they seem to grow.  Their voices are raised in an overwhelming blur of angry shouting.  Something moves in the corner of your eye, the edge of a leather jacket, grimy and shredded.

Twisting quickly, you graze your hand through the ghost behind you and it dissolves like black mist and lengthens into a chain.  Once again you throw it forward and curving your hand as though tossing a ball, it jets to the side, slicing through three more spirits before dissipating in the air.

Mechanically you continue, lashing, turning, stumbling, dissolving, again and again until you stand alone, panting.  Gradually your mind surfaces through the survival instinct submerging you in an animalistic fog.  But even with facilities somewhat operational, you’re too exhausted to even begin to question what just happened.

Everything feels hazy and unreal as you stagger to a light post at the edge of the street, falling against the slick metal and coming to rest on the curb at its base.  You don’t feel any pain, just strangely disconnected from your body.  The street is empty, clear of the horde of spirits; the only sound your own ragged breathing and the soft tap of drizzle on the pavement.

You notice your skin feels oddly coated, and you lift a hand to your forehead.  It comes away sticky and red.  Huh.  Maybe that’s why you’re so dizzy.  Shit, maybe you should call an ambulance?  You fumble through your pockets, searching for your phone.  You don’t find it, because that’s just the kind of day it’s been.

Leaning your head against the ridged pole, you stare at the clouds, allowing the mist to collect on your cracked glasses until your vision is only a blur of dark gray and orange.  You let your mind drift blankly until you hear a dim rumble.  Thunder?  No… a car.  Satisfied with your deduction, you sink back to your drowsy state of half-consciousness.

The sound gets louder, the crunch of pavement under tires stops near you, in the middle of the road.  You think they might get a ticket for that.  A door slams.  You don’t hear feet, but you can sense that someone is next to you.

“Holy shit—John?”

You crack open an eye and find Dirk crouching in front of you.

“Hey,” you say thickly.  “How’d your night go?”

“Fuck, I—hey, keep your eyes open.”

You feel his hands cup either side of your face, trying to get you to focus on him.  His voice is surprisingly gentle when he asks, “Can you stand?”

You consider this thoroughly, coming to a conclusion after many seconds of drifting thought.  “I’m gonna hafta say no.”

He exhales heavily and you force your eyes open to look at him.  He’s rocked back on his heels, drawing a hand through his hair.  His stupid shades are in place, hiding whatever it is he’s thinking.  For some reason, this frustrates you more than usual. 

Deciding that there’s at least a fifty percent chance that this entire night is just one big, long, strange, terrible nightmare, you reach up to pull his glasses off.  He lets you.

Transfixed with a sleepy sort of amazement, you stare at him, at his eyes.  They’re a rich amber color, crystalline and deep, luminous in the dim light, and more beautiful than anything you could have thought up yourself.  You note that you were right; he’s very easy to read without his shades. Everything is right there, flashing through his pretty eyes.  And right now, they’re focused on you, wide and absolutely terrified.

You frown and touch his cheek softly, trying to think of what he could be afraid of.  You don’t know, but you don’t want him to be scared anymore.  Even though it hurts a little, you grin at him.

“So can I call you Orange Eyes?” you ask.

He stares at you, frozen. 

You giggle a bit, which takes much more energy than you had estimated, and a faint smile slowly tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“Absolutely not,” he breathes.

You grin again as the last of your consciousness slips away, hoping he’ll still be there when you wake up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i really want to thank you all for being such amazing readers. it's so awesome to hear from you guys and see what you're thinking and you're all so nice and supportive! i really appreciate it, because honestly, i didn't think so many people would read this and be interested, let alone think i'm a good writer (what) so thank you! okay, i think i'm done gushing, but please, as always, feel free to talk to me or check me out on [tumblr](http://intern-rob.tumblr.com/)


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